Overthrown
by SennaNyx
Summary: When the US falls to outside forces in November 2013, Anthony thought Ian was killed 6 years ago. But his friend is still alive, working as a gunrunner in Anaheim and harboring a grudge against his best friend. But when Joven figures out he is still alive, and one of their number is taken hostage, Ian is forced to work with the people he never wanted to see again. (warnings inside)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't know how I come up with these ideas xD

So here is another Smoshy fic of mine that will be similar to my zombie apocalypse fic, Outlast, in that it features a lot of drama, violence, and intensity lol. This fic will be a bit darker than Outlast because of elements like alcoholism and PTSD. You've been warned.

It's mainly about Ian, but everyone else is involved. This fic takes place 6 years after November 2013, to avoid any confusion about pairings/other things relevant to 2014. Lol. Narrators will usually be Ian but if he's not there, it'll be anyone.

_A note on Melian: _I'm aware that Melian is no longer a thing (sob) but there will be allusions and hints to it within this fic, but it won't be a prominent plotline, for a good reason lol that will be revealed later. (Also, there is Erinshire, even though I understand that's no longer a thing either.)

I think that's everything I need to cover..I'll add more if I think of it. Okay, I hope you're ready for this crazy fic xD

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><p>March 28th, 2019<p>

Anthony wearily climbed the steps of the run-down apartment complex. Coming home was always a worry for him; he never knew what he would find, if today would be the day the Russians found him and his family in what had become the slums of LA. He supposed they were doing nothing wrong, living there quietly and following their new laws, but the country's conquerors could sometimes be in a vindictive mood. He had heard explosions in the distance as the last of their army tried to rebel against the Russians. He'd thought perhaps they were simply tearing a building down, but then he'd heard the gunshots. Anthony had gotten out of there as quickly as possible, choosing a different route home from work. A longer, but perhaps safer route – although there really was no safe place anymore.

He was a bit frantic as he fumbled with the lock; until he saw the pale, drawn, but very much alive faces of his wife and daughter, he couldn't calm down. The lock clicked and he swung the door open, its paint peeling and its corners worn. It gave way to the dim, tiny living room, complete with tattered furniture that was not theirs, but rather inherited from the previous owners. Every time he saw the place he found it depressing – it was always too hot, rather poorly lit, and the wallpaper was faded and peeling away, windows with frayed frames and dirtied glass. He had hoped that Kalel would take to cleaning it almost immediately, but her mind had been focused elsewhere, worrying about him or tending to raising their daughter.

It didn't surprise him in the least to find David asleep on their tattered couch. His wife and son had gone for groceries one day and hadn't come back; the Russians had decided, quite inconveniently, to cut off the area they had gone to in order to create a new district. That had been two years ago, and he hadn't seen them since. So David spent his days in a bit of a fog, bouncing from Anthony's house to crashing at Joshua and Erin's place and back again. Anthony couldn't refuse him help even if he minded. He felt terribly for him, and he shared whatever food they had managed to ration, even if the other man often refused.

Not long after he had shut the door, Kalel hurried out of a bedroom and threw her arms around him. Anthony hugged her back, so relieved to find her safe. She smelled of unwashed clothes and the lank, musty smell that hung around the city these days, and when she pulled away from him, he saw there were circles under her eyes. But still she smiled, perhaps a little sadly, but there was relief in her eyes too. "I'm glad you're safe," she said quietly.

He hugged her again. "Where's Emily?" he asked. The fact that his little girl hadn't run out to greet him was a bit worrying, but if David and Kalel weren't frantic, everything was probably fine.

"She's sleeping. She had a bit of a nightmare, but she's all right now."

He found himself nodding. Given the state of the world, nightmares were quite common for a little girl – he had done his best to protect her from the reality of what was out there, but he couldn't stop her from hearing gunshots and explosions. And it had, unfortunately, become all too common nowadays.

"Did you...get our money?" his wife asked, looking up at him uncertainly with her large blue eyes.

Anthony swallowed. Now for the moment he had been dreading, when he would have to explain to Kalel that he had failed, that he couldn't provide for his family. He squeezed her upper arms. "I...I tried, Kalel, but he says he needs more time."

She dropped her gaze, and after one painful moment, she nodded once. He knew she didn't blame him – money was hard to come by these days, even if one worked hard to earn it. But now they would have to try and make what little they had in their cupboards last a couple more days. "It's all right," she said softly. She raised her hands to his and squeezed them. "I'm going to check on Emily."

"I'll be there in a second," he promised, and he bent down to kiss her.

Anthony watched Kalel disappear down the hallway, recalling the days when she would walk with far more animation and bounce. Now she moved as though weighed down with every burden that encumbered him, and he hated it. With a small sigh, he took a step toward the couch.

"David," he muttered, nudging his friend on the shoulder. If he couldn't bring home any money, he could at least make sure that they would have a little bit more food to eat. "David, wake up..."

The former gamer stirred, and he glared with one eye open and a frown on his face. "What?" he mumbled, and he rubbed at his eyes.

"I'm sorry, but food and money are tight at the moment, so..." His voice trailed off awkwardly. Telling his friend he was no longer welcome at his house for the time being was painful, but he knew David would understand.

He nodded dazedly, sitting up and yawning. "Right. Right. Sorry, Anthony. I'll get going. I'll go to...what's-his-name's house."

"Thanks," he said softly. "And I'm really sorry."

David shrugged. "It's no big deal. You have a kid to look after." He got to his feet, stretching. He looked too thin. All of them looked too thin. "All right, I'll see you later."

"Be safe," Anthony told him softly. David had always been careful in the past, but anything could happen. Anthony knew that very well by now. They couldn't lose another friend. He couldn't bear it.

The older man gave him a derisive gaze, until he realized he was serious and his features softened. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

But Anthony couldn't help worrying as David slipped quietly out the door, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl in the house. If he didn't hear from him in a couple days, Anthony would check on him himself. With that decided, and knowing guiltily that it was the only thing he could do, he walked toward the dim hallway that held his daughter's bedroom.

Kalel was gently coaxing Emily Padilla into the waking world when Anthony cleared the doorway. Every time he saw her, he was hit with the same awe as he studied her features, a perfect blend of both himself and Kalel. Her dark hair hung in ringlets around her shoulders, and tiny hands rubbed at her eyes, situated serenely above her youthful round face. As she dropped her hands and blinked at him, Anthony's heart clenched at the color of her eyes; a focused, sharp dark blue.

"Daddy!" Emily cried, throwing herself into his arms.

He picked her up, holding her against his chest. "Hey, Emmie," he said, shifting his arms slightly to hold her more securely. _Jesus, she's getting heavy. _"I heard you had a nightmare?"

She wrinkled her squishy, undefined nose. "It wasn't bad. I got back to sleep." She grinned at Kalel, who sat on her daughter's bed, watching the two of them with a smile. "Mama helped me."

"That was nice of her," Anthony said, smiling at Kalel too.

Kalel got to her feet. "How about you go and play in the living room while your dad and I make dinner?"

"Okay!" their daughter agreed amicably, and when Anthony set her down, she ran into the hall. He heard her little feet patter against the thin, worn carpet.

His wife drew closer to him. "Be sure to draw the blinds," Kalel told him quietly. "In the living room. Just in case."

He nodded. He hadn't needed to be reminded. The fewer people who knew where they lived, the better.

Anthony followed Kalel to the kitchen, where they would have no trouble keeping an eye on their daughter. She knew not to go outside, not to converse with anyone, not to trust their neighbors – and he hated it. This was no way to live, being in constant fear of attacks, always in a state of paranoia. He had never wanted to raise a family this way. Sadness gripped his heart as Anthony helped Kalel chop up the squishy, too-ripe tomatoes. He would have given anything for Ian to be there, helping him through this, making him laugh when he just wanted to break down and give up.

* * *

><p>Joshua sat heavily beside the occupied hospital bed, almost throwing himself into the comfy, squishy chair. He took a moment to rub his eyes behind his glasses. What a fucking day. He had been up since two in the morning, helped at least fifty people with minor to severe injuries, and at the end of the last hour, had told a girl with blood poisoning that there was nothing they could do to help her. He would not forget her face for a long time.<p>

He gently lowered his hands, straightened his glasses, and looked solemnly at the immobile figure lying in the bed. She had tangled, dark hair, and some of it was splayed across her face from the last time the nurses moved her. Joshua brushed it away gingerly, revealing the woman he had known for years. She was older now, though, and there was a sickly hue to her features, and the oxygen mask over her face obscured her mouth and nose. Joshua watched her sadly for a moment, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Joshua swallowed several times before he began speaking. "Today was awful," he told her quietly. Her chest rose and fell gently, but otherwise she was perfectly still. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. I can't tell Erin about it – she doesn't need more to worry about, and she's not that great at being reassuring. You always were, though." His eyes watered, and he took off his glasses and rubbed at them again. "I could really use your insight right now, Mari."

The Japanese woman remained as she was. He had begun talking to her not long after she had been attacked and her coma struck her, hoping that by some miracle his voice could reach her and pull her out of it. And if she was somehow still aware in the depths of her unconscious brain, it had to be terrifying not knowing what was going on, so he had taken it upon himself to tell her everything. Almost everything, that is – he hadn't mentioned anything to her the day Sohinki disappeared, three years ago, just a couple weeks after the other man had brought her to the hospital, bloody and disoriented. Joshua's heart clenched, remembering the way Sohinki had stayed by her side the moment she had fallen into the coma, remaining there as she underwent surgeries and staying as long as he could into the nights. Until one day he'd been forced to leave, and Joshua had not seen him since. A million things could have happened to his old friend, and he and David had gone to enormous lengths to try and track him down, but they had come up with nothing.

A thought struck him, something he had wanted to mention to her, and he sat up a little straighter. "Something happened when I was in town the other day," he told her quietly. "I...I know it's impossible, Mari, and I'm almost sorry to bring this up...but...I was walking along the sidewalk, and I swear, just for a moment, I saw Ian." He swept his hands outward in a disbelieving gesture. "I know it's crazy. I know it can't happen. But that guy I saw looked so much like him..." Joshua shook his head, remembering the man he had seen for only a split second. But if Mari really was conscious beneath the coma, she wouldn't want any false hope that one of her dearest friends had suddenly been seen around Anaheim. Anthony had seen Ian get shot himself; there was no way he was still alive. "I'm sorry to bring that up. I won't mention it again."

He blinked away the wetness in his eyes. They had lost Ian six years ago, the day the Russians had taken over. Then Mari had been attacked and perhaps would never recover. And then Sohinki was gone, simply disappeared without warning one day. They were losing what remained of their sorry little group; after he'd lost Ian, Anthony had taken measures to make sure the rest of them stayed safe, but he couldn't protect them all. Joshua remembered his pain after Ian's death, the lost look in his eyes that lingered for months. It hurt to think about it now. Joshua thought that perhaps he ought to visit Anthony and his family; David would be there, and it had been a few days since they had caught up. Everyone needed a break from the violence and terror of the war.

For now, though, he had a place here, taking care of patients and watching over Mari. He turned to look at her again, meeting her closed eyes, and leaned back in the chair, beginning his silent vigil beside her.

* * *

><p>Ian stared absently into his drink. Despite his requests, they hadn't made it strong enough, and he wouldn't have ordered it at all if it hadn't made him look less suspect. He scowled at it, resting his arm on the briefcase beside him. The bartender was watching him warily as he scrubbed glasses with a dirty cloth. The guy was American, but Ian had ordered in a thick Russian accent, throwing off his pursuers and anyone else who might be listening. Even with all his caution and effort, Ian had learned long ago that language was the best disguise. No one would bother him as long as he remained at the bar – except, of course, the man he was supposed to meet. His hands shook. He wanted a cigarette.<p>

He took a drink. It was vodka, of course, but not the strong stuff he usually drank, which was a pity. He could really use it at the moment. The bar was filled with drunk Russians, who shouted, laughed, and drank heavily, and pregnant Russian prostitutes; one of them leered at him as she passed, showing crooked yellow teeth and entirely too much of her bulging stomach. Ian dropped his gaze back to his drink and the woman thankfully ignored him. He wished the guy would hurry up. He didn't want to remain in this bar, surrounded by Russians, any longer than he had to. Ian knew he could blend in easily, but he could not let go of the worry that one of them would realize he was American, or recognize him, or something else would go wrong. He took another drink to ease himself.

It took considerable effort not to start when the man arrived suddenly, sitting beside him heartily and ordering a drink before he had introduced himself. Ian responded in perfect, practiced Russian, and hinted rather strongly that he wanted to get the transaction underway. He slid the briefcase closer to him.

But the Russian man had clearly had a bit to drink before arriving; he wiped his graying hair away from his eyes and declared, "You're a bit young to be a gunrunner, aren't you?" He took a generous swig of his drink.

Ian forced a faint smile. He had been told that many times; the first was when he was twenty-six and delivering guns for the first time, terrified and nervous. Now, though, he'd done this enough to scam drunken Russians of their money. "Thanks. Makes it easier to get here."

The man laughed heartily before turning his attention to the briefcase. "All right, all right. Show me what you have."

He did. The Russian man's eyes ran over the dismantled guns, eyeing them greedily. He actually licked his lips.

"Well, you've got quite a collection here, but I'm a bit wary of your asking price."

Ah. He needed more to drink. Ian nodded absently, sipping at his own drink; the man didn't hesitate to copy the gesture, but he took a much more generous gulp, which was exactly what he had been hoping for. "All right. We can negotiate."

But by the time the Russian man had settled on a price he liked, he was very red in the face indeed, and Ian had no trouble misdirecting the cost to its initial value. The guy agreed readily, shoving a bundle of Russian dollars at him before heartily shaking his hand. "Good doing business with you," he said, his eyes unfocused and glassy.

Ian smiled pleasantly. He was pretty happy about the clump of ruble in his hand and the ease of the transaction. The Russian man left the bar in a stumbling, unsteady manner. Ian then paid for his drink with the money he had just acquired and followed the man outside.

"He took a left," a gruff voice in his ear said. "He's heading up 4th."

He knew. He had seen him. Through the sparse crowd of mute, anxious faces, it was easy to spot the drunken man. Ian moved through them at a brisk pace. No one looked at him, no one made contact with him; they carefully avoided him as though he was marked. He was used to it. Dressed as he was, he looked like a Russian. These were Americans, and they had every right to be scared.

The sky overhead was a murky, dark gray. It had been that color the week before, and the week before that. Too many explosions and fires in too short a time had mottled it so badly Ian rarely saw the sun. Once, its rays had peeked through the wisps of unnatural clouds created by the bombings, but an attack that night by the rebels had obscured the tiny window. Now, it seemed the sky would forever reflect the same dark gloom hindering the citizens.

Ian paused when he noticed the Russian man cross the street. With staggering, awkward steps, he fumblingly opened the door of a windowless building and let himself inside. Ian waited.

"It's clear. We've been watching the building. You should be fine."

_Then why couldn't you take care of this? _Ian thought bitterly, but he knew why. He was the youngest, the least experienced, and he had nothing to lose. According to his boss, he was expendable. Ian crossed the street and placed a hand on the gun in his jacket. He opened the door.

Inside, it was very dark. The immediate hallway revealed a narrow stairway that went up and out of sight. There were two doors on either side of him. Ian listened. He could hear Russian being spoken in quick, hushed tones, but he couldn't understand what the man was saying. Ian prodded the first door open, listened some more, and tried the other door. This time, the voice was much louder. He drew his gun. "We've got enough guns, I think," came his slurred voice. Ian listened as he let himself into the room. "That should be enough to crush the rebels, perhaps we can begin soon –"

To say that the man was surprised to see him was rather an understatement. He froze and dropped the phone; then swore loudly in Russian, commanding him to leave. "Sorry," Ian said, in English this time, "you have something of mine."

"American," sneered the Russian man, right before he was shot in the chest.

Ian stepped over the body and collected his guns. He checked them and counted them, retrieved most of the others the Russians had collected, then left the room, switching on the microphone under his shirt. "I got the guns," he said, "and the guy's –"

The front door opened suddenly. At once, the large Russian shouted something, grabbing the folds of Ian's collar and slamming him against the wall. The briefcase slid from his hands.

"American!" yelled the man. "What the fuck are you doing in –"

"No!" Ian cried in Russian, looking anywhere but into the man's eyes. "No, don't hurt me, I didn't mean to trespass –"

At the sound of the correct language, the man's fury fled, and he released him at once. "I apologize," he said quickly. "I thought you were an American...my mistake."

But when he turned away to leave, Ian shot him too.

The voice in his ear had turned frantic. "Ian? Ian, are you there?"

He looted the body and found a revolver and several rounds of ammo. "I'm here," he said, straightening up. He knew that no one outside would investigate the gunshots; shootings had become all too common these days. Unfortunate for society, perhaps, but convenient for him. "I got an extra gun."

His job was done. It was time he returned to the base and let the others deal with what he had collected. Ian left the building with the guns in hand. He was looking forward to that fresh bottle of vodka he had stashed in his room and the promise that no one would bother him.

* * *

><p>AN: Everyone from Smosh seems to be doing pretty well, right? :D

Next time: A lot of backstory on Ian on why the hell he's the way he is now lol and why he hates Anthony. Also, Joshua decides to follow a hunch.

Thanks for reading, guys. Please leave a review with any comments or questions haha; I'm sure I forgot to mention something xD I hope you liked the intro chapter! :D More to come soon :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: A super dramatic chapter coming up. Get ready for some intensity surrounding what happened to Ian six years ago.

And be careful what you wish for, Joshua.

Enjoy :)

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><p>April 9th, 2019<p>

Joshua only saw him for a second, but it was enough.

He was running through the crowd in an instant, swerving past civilians and shouting for the man he was sure he had seen. It had been six years since Joshua had last seen Ian, and faces in memory tended to fade over time, yet Joshua was positive it was him. "Ian!" he shouted; every once in a while, he could see the person he was after through gaps in the crowd some thirty feet ahead of him. "_Ian!_"

He had come there in an attempt to track down a new pillow for Mari. It seemed foolish, making so much effort for something so simple, but he would do it only for Mari. But Joshua had not counted on spotting a ghost. With everyone else around him walking slowly and despondently through the city, he was making quite a scene trying to catch up with his old friend. Joshua didn't care. _He's dead, _a voice in the back of his head tried to tell him. _What the hell am I doing? It's not him. It can't be. _But something kept him going.

Joshua was tall enough to see over most of the crowd. He peered around a group of Middle Easterners, who had joined the war a couple years ago and aided the Russians any way they could, and caught a split-second glimpse of the figure in question slip into a hotel.

By the time he got there, he was out of breath and panicky. Joshua burst into the hotel far too late to catch him. The Russian woman at the counter stared at him, and she even edged back a little. She exchanged a glance with a severe-looking man on the other side of the counter. "I'm looking for someone," he said, winded. "I think he just checked in here. It's really, really important that I speak to him." _Why? _he found himself wondering. _He's not here. He's dead. Anthony saw it happen six years ago. _But the man he had seen had looked so much like him...he couldn't mistake the face shape, the hair color. He was sure it had been him.

The woman opened her mouth, but the man cut sharply across her. "No one checked in," he said coldly. "Please leave."

Joshua stared at him. The man spoke with an American accent. He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I swear I saw him. His name is Ian Hecox. Let me see him. Please."

"Leave," the man repeated. Something in his eyes flashed. Joshua noticed the gun at his side.

"Okay, okay," he said, backing out of the lobby. "Sorry. Must have been my mistake."

He stepped into the gloomy afternoon, disheartened. Either he really was mistaken or that man was very carefully hiding whoever had checked in...if it had been Ian, Joshua wondered why that man had been covering for him. He shook his head ruefully. _What am I doing? _he thought. _He's gone. It's been six years. There's no way he's still alive. _

But it was impossible for Joshua to rid himself of the profile he had seen. It had been so familiar it was almost eerie; the man had looked so much like the guy he had worked with so long ago. He wished Anthony had been there to see him too, otherwise he doubted he would believe him. Joshua shook his head, scuffing his foot on the dirty and ashy sidewalk and began his trek back to the hospital. He wouldn't bother Mari with this story. She didn't need anymore false hope.

"Wait! Sir!"

Joshua turned. The young Russian woman hurried toward him, her tattered dress fluttering in the wind. He blinked at her, offering her a hand in case she tripped, but she straightened up and said breathlessly, in a thick accent, "He leaves around eleven tonight."

"What?"

She shook her head and ran a hand through her thick bangs. "The man who stopped you. He leaves around eleven. You can visit your friend then."

"Oh – really!" Joshua's heart leapt. "That's – that's great! Thank you so much!"

The woman offered him what he suspected was a rare smile.

Joshua hesitated, knowing not to push his luck, but said gently, "The guy I'm trying to meet up with...is his name Ian?"

And she shook her head, and his hopes sank once more. "No, sir. He spoke Russian."

"He did?" Joshua frowned. It couldn't be him, then.

"No, sir, but you were correct when you said that a man had checked in just a moment before you arrived. I am not sure if it is who you are looking for, however. Would you still like to try?"

"Yes," he said at once. "So...I'll be here around eleven." _I hope he won't be sleeping, _he thought. _Hell, I doubt it's even him. In the worst case, I'll just be waking up some Russian guy. Ian will be worth it. _Joshua offered the young woman another smile. "Thank you so much."

* * *

><p>Ian was attempting to leave the hotel when John, a fellow gunrunner, stopped him in the hallway. He raised his eyebrows at him. "Don't go to the lobby for a minute," his coworker of sorts said.<p>

"Why?" Ian demanded. He wanted to get to the market to buy another bottle of vodka.

"Because there's someone down there looking for you." John just looked at him. "He knew your real name."

The words sent a pang of worry twisting his insides, but Ian dismissed it at once. "It's probably no one. Someone who thought they recognized me, or maybe someone I worked with a long time ago. I'm not worried."

John shrugged. "You're the one who likes to be careful. I just thought I'd warn you. Go down there if you're curious, but if you get shot, I'm telling the boss you didn't listen." Before Ian could come up with a response to that, John disappeared into his own room.

Ian hesitated in the middle of the hallway. His heart was burning with curiosity, demanding to know who had pursued him. He thought of the obvious choice, but his mind refused to think of the man who had once been his best friend, and his memory only made him angrier. Ian turned toward his room abruptly. _I don't want to see him anyway._

Still...this meant that someone knew who he was. Someone had tracked him down, figured out where he was staying, and even knew his real name. It could be anybody; an old acquaintance, someone he had once ripped off, or, indeed, an old business partner looking to work with him again. Whoever it was, Ian knew he was better off alone. He shoved aside his curiosity.

He was deterred from his sanctuary by the old housemaid, who was as Russian as she was befuddled. "You're back," she said in Russian, wheeling her cart of cleaning supplies along the worn-down hall.

Ian switched languages at once. "Good to see you again, Olga," he said smoothly. He had stopped by this hotel earlier this month on another business trip. It had ended with the loss of a valuable AK47; his boss was not happy.

"I was hoping I would see you again. Was there anything you needed?" And she grinned at him with her crooked teeth.

He smiled too, and he found himself using the voice he donned when scamming people out of their guns and money. "No, thank you. I appreciate it. I'll let you know if I do." Ian wondered if she had any money on her, anything of value...he shoved the thought aside. He didn't have to be an asshole to the first person sincerely worried about him in years. Still, though, Ian unlocked his door. Even if they thought he was Russian too, and they were trying to be nice, he hated talking to them for too long. He couldn't stand Russians.

The smile she fixed him with was far too much like a leer for his liking. "Do that, sir. I'll see you later." She wheeled her way down the hall and offered him a final grin.

Ian locked himself in his room. He was used to people believing he was Russian, but it was unnerving how differently he was treated depending on which language he used. Americans were persecuted, silenced, and shunned, while their Russian conquerors were suddenly entitled to whatever they desired. He sat heavily in the armchair beside the fireplace, which was too dusty and dirty for use.

_Well, hell. _With whoever was looking for him downstairs, lurking in the lobby waiting for him to show up, Ian could not yet leave. He needed vodka. And perhaps some extra bullets. There was no telling what would happen, who might be looking for him. He rubbed his eyes, and despite his efforts, his thoughts landed on the unknown person who had demanded to see him. _This is why I didn't want to get too close to LA, _he thought bitterly. He had left the sanctuary of Anaheim in pursuit of a business deal that would keep himself and his enterprise fed for another month or so. It was his own damned fault if his _friends – _the word churned in his mind unpleasantly – had somehow discovered him.

He lit a cigarette. It wasn't a glass of vodka, but it would calm him down until he could get out of the hotel and focus his mind on something else. Ian watched the afternoon sun dip lower in the sky through the grimy window. He closed his eyes briefly and took another drag on his cigarette, wondering how the hell his life had ended up so insane.

* * *

><p><em>November 20<em>_th__, 2013_

_When the bullet hit, he could feel it tearing through skin, muscle, tissue. He hit the ground hard. He grabbed the wound, and something warm and sticky spread around his hands, leaking through his fingers. The only sound he heard was his own ragged breathing. He was shaking so badly he couldn't keep pressure on the gunshot. The streetlights around him faded in and out. _

_He rolled onto his back, looking down at the damage. He had gotten shot in the chest, through a lung perhaps – it was difficult to breathe. He took short, shallow breaths, his heart racing and pounding, the gunshot aching terribly. It felt as though he had gotten struck squarely in the chest with a metal bat. He looked around the streets for help, for the attackers, anyone – but he was alone. The Russians marched down a different street. With bloody, shaking hands, he fumbled for his cell phone and dialed the first number in his list of contacts._

Please answer. Please answer,_ he thought desperately. _I'm dead if you don't answer_. He sank to the concrete with the phone held to his ear, too weak to remain upright, clutching the bullet wound in his other hand. His ears began to ring, a high-pitched keen that made his head spin. Blood soaked his shirt. The phone rang once. "Hello? Ian?"_

_His friend sounded almost as frantic as he was. "I – I've been shot," he stammered at once, looking around the empty streets once more. He could hear sirens and more gunshots, but they were far away. "It's bad – I don't know what to do, I need help." He knew Anthony was close by; it wouldn't be too dangerous for him to come and help him...surely it wouldn't. Anthony would save him. _

"_Oh my God." There was a pause, he mumbled something to someone else – "I – I've got Kalel with me, I'm sorry, we're safe, I don't know if we can move –"_

"_What?" Ian had frozen. Terror, as strong as it had been before, bled like ice through his veins. His brain refused to accept what Anthony was trying to tell him. _

_The voice on the other line was anguished. "I can't risk us getting caught, those fuckers are everywhere –"_

"_They're gone!" Ian choked. "I swear – I swear they're gone!"_

_Another terrible pause. When Anthony spoke, his voice was strangely cold; it didn't sound like him at all. "I'm sorry, Ian."_

"_Fuck you!" Ian cried. His eyes watered; he blinked, dispersing the liquid in his eyes. "Fuck you –"_

_His phone died. He dropped it. Numbness spread its way down his limbs. Anthony wasn't coming. No one was going to save him. He was going to bleed to death on the side of the road in LA. As light-headedness crept in, he dropped his arm, allowing the concrete to be his final resting place. His rage remained in the back of his mind. It never truly left, even as he lay dying._

_Blood loss caught up with him and he passed out for a short while. When footsteps approached, he forced himself awake, and he looked up at the strangers with half-open eyes. They wore black uniforms, carried weapons, and spoke with thick accents._

_One of them nudged him with his toe. "This one's still alive," he said. He didn't know why they were bothering to speak English. To scare him, perhaps._

_The other grunted. "What should we do? Bring him in?"_

_The light from the streetlamps bled together, and Ian once again lost track of where he was._

"_Sure. We could always use more…"_

April 9th, 2019

Ian was thrown rudely back into reality when someone knocked on the door. He froze, glancing at the shabby hotel door. It was probably that damned woman again, checking up on him. Shaking aside the remnants of the flashback, he sat up, setting the bottle of vodka aside. The last bits of memories would follow him around for a bit, but at least he wasn't caught in the grip of a flashback.

He stood. "I told you I don't need anything," he shouted at the door in Russian, too drunk to remember his manners. He had been looking forward to drinking until he fell asleep. It helped keep the memories away. Ian trudged over to the door.

He threw it open. Froze.

Ian had not seen this man in six years, yet he would have recognized him anywhere. He no longer had a mohawk, but his black hair was longer and combed neatly to the side. The taller man wore glasses and had grown a layer of stubble. There was no mistaking him, despite the differences, and Ian stared at him, searching for something to say. He felt the blood drain out of his face. Fuck. Fuck. This was not supposed to have happened. Not now.

Joshua found his voice first. "Holy shit – Ian." He took a step forward. "It is you – Jesus – we thought you were dead. Anthony said you were dead."

Ian tore his eyes away from his face and moved away from the door. He needed a drink immediately. He heard Joshua follow him inside, closing the door behind him. At least now the Russian patrons wouldn't hear their conversation, although his cover may have just been blown. God dammit. Joshua could mess up his entire sale.

He twisted the lid off the bottle of vodka and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer Joshua a glass. Ian ignored the other man as he stammered behind him. "How did you – I mean, you survived, obviously, but I mean, what happened?"

"How did you find me?" Ian asked curtly. He took a drink and turned, watching Joshua carefully.

Joshua dropped his arms, staring at him as though still trying to convince himself he was really there. "I – I thought I saw you the other day – I happened to be in the area, I saw you again, I saw you go in here...your friend stopped me from seeing you, so I had to wait. She – she said you spoke Russian though – did I just hear you talk Russian, just now?" He pointed to the door.

Ian stood there holding the glass, watching the other man stumbling over his words. He couldn't believe, of all people, Joshua had found him. He thought that Anthony would have figured out a long time ago that he had made it out of LA, although in pieces. He must have been pretty good at disappearing. He definitely hadn't wanted to be found.

He put the glass down. "I see."

Joshua looked like a child who was sure he was in trouble. He wrung his hands. "Ian. What happened in LA? Anthony said you got shot –"

"I did." Memories nagged at him, filled with blood and terror. He ignored them.

"He said you died."

Ian almost laughed. "I'm sure he did."

Joshua waited, but Ian didn't elaborate. "So you're not gonna tell me? I've thought you were dead for six years, Ian. You owe me an explanation. All of us."

"No, I don't," was his blunt response. He sat heavily in the armchair and reached for the glass of vodka.

There was a short moment of silence. Ian wished he would leave. He had to sell those guns tomorrow, or at least trade them, and he was supposed to meet the guy early the next day. It was already late in the evening. And he definitely had not expected this interrogation tonight. He had thought, perhaps rather foolishly, that he would never have to deal with any of his old friends again, and this uncomfortable conversation would escape him.

Joshua must have figured Ian wasn't going to tell him, because he said, "Would you like to know how the others are?"

Ian hesitated. He'd be lying if he said the information wouldn't interest him, but he cared so little for these people now that he couldn't bring himself to admit it. In the end he just shrugged.

The other man sighed, and he sat in one of the old armchairs. "David was cut off from his family a couple years ago. They're stuck in North District, and he can't get to them."

Ian didn't react. David's story sounded similar to half the guys he worked with nowadays. There was nothing unusual about it.

"Mari is in a coma," Joshua continued. Ian turned to look at him, his expression carefully impassive. "She was attacked three years ago and has been in and out of surgeries. We're not sure if she will ever recover."

He was beginning to feel numb again, and memories from his own past were prodding at him, threatening to throw another flashback at him. He ignored them and thought of Mari. He hadn't seen the Japanese woman in six years, but he felt she hadn't deserved what had happened to her. If he could find a way to help her, he would.

"Sohinki disappeared shortly after Mari got hurt. We haven't seen him or heard anything about him since."

The news didn't really surprise him. Once the Middle East had gotten involved, they had made a point of burning down churches and synagogues. They had also hunted down every Jewish family. Ian had once seen a Jewish couple tortured to death in the streets. Their skin had been so badly flayed they were unrecognizable.

If Sohinki hadn't been targeted and murdered, he was probably hiding out somewhere.

Ian met Joshua's gaze at last, anticipating the name he had been waiting for. "Anthony and Kalel are married. They've got a kid now; she's five. They live in the slums downtown, and David often visits and stays there."

Ian rolled his eyes and turned away. Anthony had a kid – of course he did, the idiot. Why not have a child in the middle of a takeover? The kid had probably been an accident. He tried to find any sort of sadness, any hint that he missed his old friend, but Ian found only anger and bitterness.

"Uh, that's only four, though. I'm forgetting someone." A pause. "Oh – myself. Well, I'm volunteering to work at the hospital where Mari is staying, to kind of look after her, since everyone else is so busy. I still see Erin sometimes."

The glass of vodka had been emptied. Ian reached for the bottle, pouring himself another generous drink. His hand shook. He had never wanted to hear from these people again, but suddenly Joshua was here, having tracked him down by a stroke of luck. He couldn't believe it. After the horrors six years ago in LA, he had been quite happy to leave that past behind him.

Memories prodded at him, louder now. He hastened to take another drink and they quieted somewhat. Ian looked over at Joshua, who looked as though he expected him to say something. He would be waiting a long time.

Joshua looked away, and his eyes fell on the open briefcase on the coffee table. Ian stared at the wall as Joshua examined it, looking at the various guns and weapons jammed inside.

"You're a gunrunner," he said, looking at the dismantled AK47. Joshua tried to catch his eye, but Ian was very carefully ignoring him. "Aren't you?"

Ian just shrugged again.

"You're probably with those guys who kill any Russians and then pretend that someone else did it and cause more conflict. Trading guns is only part of it." He narrowed his eyes. "David told me about them. You've been in Anaheim this whole time, haven't you? That's where they made their base."

At this, Ian turned his head to look at him. Why Joshua had suddenly chosen now to be this observant, when he had been a stumbling fool during the days Ian had worked with him, was beyond him, but it was certainly inconvenient. Not only had Joshua tracked him down, but he had figured out his line of work as well.

And Ian had no idea what to say to this sudden interrogation.

Joshua grit his teeth. "Look, Ian. Tell me what happened. You've lied to us for six years."

"I didn't lie to you," Ian said, finding his voice at last. "I just didn't let you know I had survived."

His old friend's scowl became more pronounced. He pressed his glasses up against the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was losing his patience. "I'm going to find Anthony, and tell him you're still alive. Do I need to get him to talk some sense into you?"

The mention of his oldest friend had him seething again, and the memories came back in a terrible wave. Blood, terror, the report of gunshots. The old wound in his chest throbbed. Ian hastened to refill his drink. "Fine. Go tell Anthony, if it'll get you to leave. I'll be long gone by the time you get back with him. Apparently I'm good at disappearing."

His hand was shaking badly now. He couldn't get the alcohol into his system fast enough. Flickers of a flashback sent his mind reeling – a rickety, squeaky car ride, his shirt slick with blood...

He blinked again, and he was back in the hotel room. But his heart pounded frantically. He could still hear screams and gunshots, muffled slightly by Joshua's voice.

"It doesn't matter – I know where you work now. I can probably find you again. I'm sure you don't want that. So tell me now, and maybe I'll leave you alone."

Ian couldn't ignore the memories any longer. He put his glass down and leaned forward in the armchair, rubbing his eyes and his temples. He needed Joshua to leave immediately. He was bringing back memories of situations he had tried to hard to forget – moments so terrifying he needed alcohol every night to get to sleep.

He felt the pistol in his jacket. Thank God he'd left it there.

"How much of that have you had?" Joshua asked suddenly. Ian opened his eyes in time to see him nodding toward the half-empty bottle of vodka. He just thought Ian was drunk, and he partially was, but Joshua was oblivious to the demons plaguing him.

"Not enough, apparently," Ian said. He drew a shaky, unsteady breath. Joshua scowled, and tried his assault again.

"Do you know what Anthony has gone through since you've been gone? He hasn't been himself, Ian, and it's because – "

"I really don't care." He stopped Joshua's train of thought with his sharp words; the other man's mouth snapped shut. After what Anthony's cowardice had put him through, Ian could have cared less how he had acted since Ian had 'died.' Anthony had no right to complain.

But Josh did not seem deterred. His eyes hardened, angry at being cut off. "Look, I haven't seen you for six years and –"

Something in his head snapped. Suddenly he couldn't stand to listen to Joshua's voice anymore – not with the memories prodding at him. Ian reached for the gun in his jacket. He pointed it at Joshua, flicking the safety off. The other man froze, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"You want to know what happened to me?" Ian snarled. Screams and gunshots sounded in the back of his head, but he ignored them. Every time he blinked, he was thrown back and forth between present time and the memories that haunted him from six years ago. "I was shot in LA trying to get out of there. The Russians found me. They had been looking for survivors, see, particularly Americans. They had set up this prison where they said they were running experiments, but in reality it was to scare Americans and our allies. Not a lot of people survived." He fought to keep his voice steady, but the memories had shifted to flashes of light and splatters of blood. "I was there for six months."

The atmosphere in the room had gone very tense. Joshua was no longer staring down the barrel of the pistol, but at him instead. He was very pale.

Ian fought to ignore the flashbacks, but it was difficult with Joshua there. He cocked the weapon. "Get out."  
>Joshua swallowed. "You wouldn't shoot me," he said, trying to be light, but his voice broke.<p>

Ian pulled the trigger. The bullet fired over his old friend's left shoulder, striking the wall behind him. The report cracked and Joshua jumped in terror.

"What the fuck! Jesus –"

"Get out," Ian repeated. "I won't miss next time."

Joshua rose hastily to his feet, and Ian followed his movement with the barrel of the gun. The other man bustled to the door. He turned to look at him again. Ian had already put the gun away and reached for the vodka.

"I'm going to tell the others you're alive, Ian. We're going to try and find you."

"You do that," said Ian.

The door closed. Ian didn't bother with a glass this time. He drank deeply, but still the memories came, more intense and real than they had appeared in a long time. What would he do when Anthony found him? He would probably be crippled by the terrible memories, and Anthony was the last person Ian wanted to see when he was like that. Especially given that it had been Anthony who had caused most of them in the first place, if not all.

Ian had lost everything thanks to his oldest friend. And now, thanks to his own carelessness, he was about to meet up with him again in a few days' time. He shook his head. The bottle of vodka felt continually lighter in his hands. He would need more, but he couldn't remember where he had left his extra stash.

He didn't have enough to keep the memories at bay for much longer. Hopefully, though, when Anthony found him, he would be in a better state of mind. There were times when he couldn't remember anything about what had happened six years ago; and then there were times like that day, when they came back to him in an unpleasant wave.

Ian heard gunfire outside; the distant sound of an explosion. They were pretty common occurrences, given the state of the world, but they didn't help keep his terror away. He rolled over, trying to sleep, as memories prodded at the back of his mind and eventually overwhelmed his senses.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh dear. Poor Ian.

Expect a few more flashbacks that will explain some of the questions that have probably been raised :)

Next time: Joshua tells Anthony about Ian, but Anthony's dealing with a problem of his own. I wonder how he's gonna react to learning that Ian is still alive, hmm...

I hope you guys are enjoying Overthrown so far :D


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the slight wait. College is tough. Blah.

This will probably be the only chapter without Ian. Enjoy :)

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><p>"Should we get some fruit?"<p>

Anthony looked at the measly number of coins in his palm. They were a portion of what he was owed, but as life often went these days, they would have to make do. He sent Kalel a hesitant glance he knew she would understand. "We'll see if we have enough," he told her quietly. He gently squeezed the hand held in his, and she nodded once. They stayed close together within the crowded outdoor market. It had been set up on a street in LA, but since almost no one was driving, the Russians allowed their merchants to sell to Americans at repeatedly ridiculous prices. Anthony glanced at the sky, always nervous that a plane might appear and drop a bomb upon their heads. The sky gave nothing away except a bright gray dome, and they were trapped beneath it. He swallowed anxiously and he felt Kalel squeeze his hand; he looked down to find her rounded blue eyes were full of understanding. He smiled, to reassure her as much as himself, and turned back to the market, busy and loud around them. "Okay. What else?"

She nodded toward the bakery, just visible in a small part in the crowd, and a moment later their view of it was swallowed up by the mass of people going about their business. "Emily likes cheese sandwiches," she said.

"Ah, okay," he said, distracted; he was just tall enough to see over the crowd, and he had noticed that the eggs were very nearly gone. He gave her a few coins. "You get some bread. I'll just grab these eggs real fast."

"All righty," she said with the false cheer she injected into her voice to keep her family's spirits up. He never had the heart to try, and he loved and appreciated her efforts. He never would have remembered Emily's favorite food within a crowded market, surrounded by people he didn't know. Only she would somehow keep her head. _My wife, _he thought, so proud of her.

Anthony released her hand.

He moved carefully through the crowd, pushing and edging past people, Americans and Russians and Middle Easterners alike. He muttered "excuse me" to anyone he bumped into, his mind running over concerns for his family and his remaining friends, and by the time he made it to the seller's venue, his thoughts were very much elsewhere. He was not thinking that, since the seller was most likely Russian, he should be on his guard; but instead he thought of Kalel's concern, Emily's naïve happiness, the friends he had to look after. It simply was not in his nature to be suspicious of others, especially when he had people counting on him. Anthony forced himself back to reality, told himself they would be all right, and looked over the eggs in the tiny, filthy, glass refrigerator. They did not look well preserved, but they were the only eggs in the area, and both Kalel and Anthony loved pancakes for breakfast. The beady-eyed man behind the table eyed him. He was wearing a filthy tank top stained with something dark.

Buying them took longer than expected because the seller did not speak English. Anthony was in the middle of trying to understand how much they cost when a scream nearly stopped his heart.

"Kalel?" he said, whirling around; the other shoppers, were angled toward a scene on the other side of the market. Another scream, and this time he recognized his wife's voice. He did not realize he had dropped the coins. "Kalel! No –"

Anthony ran through the crowd, but he may as well have been walking, so densely were the human bodies packed into the street. He did not bother to be polite this time. His heart was beating like a piston in his chest, and the dread filling his veins was icy cold. _No. No. Not her. I shouldn't have left her alone, what the fuck was I thinking – _Through the gaps in the crowd, Anthony finally saw her. She was forced, kicking and screaming, into the back of an armored truck, and he was too far away to stop it. Her captors wore the dark uniforms of Russian soldiers. The sight of her struggling had him nearly in tears.

They slammed the doors shut and hurried around the truck. He did not hear the engine roar to life, but it seemed like an instant later the truck was running, and it had begun to pull away from the market. His heart lurched, watching it gather speed.

"No!" he screamed. But by the time he made it to her, the truck had sped off down the street, its tires squealing as it rounded a corner. Anthony was left alone.

There was not much point in going after the truck at this point, but Anthony pressed numbly on. The crowd around him, people he did not really see, returned to their business now that the excitement was over. Anthony had never felt so lost. For a moment, he thought that his heart, so active not even a moment before, had stopped entirely. Ice had flooded his veins, and he felt himself shuddering, shaking as he walked. His hands grasped his hair. "No," he whispered. _God, no. Not her, too. I lost another one. God, Kalel, I'm so sorry. _

Ian. Sohinki. Now Kalel, too. All gone, in one way or another, gone and never to be seen again. And Mari, too, if she never recovered; she had been hurt because Anthony had neglected to protect her. But Kalel was his wife, his other half – how was he going to raise Emily without her? Could he still get her back? Anthony felt his legs keep taking him forward, and he inadvertently dropped the groceries in his hands. He rounded the corner only to find a busy, but oddly quiet street. There was no sign of the armored truck.

He kept going. He walked for hours, searching in vain for the truck that had taken his wife from him. He had failed Emily, he had failed Kalel; his friends were disappearing one by one. Soon he wouldn't have anyone left. He blinked away the liquid in his eyes. There was no one here who would help him – no one in this new world would bother with his problems. They looked out for themselves, no one else. Anthony tried to look out for those who were important to him, but still he failed, over and over again. _I couldn't even keep my wife safe, _he thought numbly as he walked through the busy but silent streets, searching for something he had no hope of finding. _I'm so sorry, Kalel. _

* * *

><p>Joshua knocked on the old, worn-down door. Once, twice, repeatedly. He was quivering with excitement. <em>Anthony is not gonna believe this, <em>he thought happily. In the back of his mind, nagging him with vague worry, reminded him that Ian had very nearly shot him, so desperate was their old friend to get him to leave. He could remember his cold, deadly serious eyes all too clearly. Ian definitely was not the same person...but Joshua would worry about that later. He was tired of seeing Anthony so lost and despondent, finding happiness only in his family. Maybe this would snap him out of it.

He heard someone approach their apartment door, pause by the keyhole, and open it hesitantly. Instead of looking up at Anthony, Joshua found himself staring down at David. "Oh, hi," he said. "Good to see you, man."  
>"You, too," David said, letting him in. Joshua wrung his hands as he entered the apartment, looking around without really seeing anything. David eyed him with a frown. "Uh, are you all right?"<p>

"Where's Anthony?" Joshua asked quickly.

David just looked at him almost worriedly. "He and Kalel went to the market. I'm watching Emily; she's playing in her room. What's got you all worked up?"

Joshua took a breath. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't believe what he had discovered; they had gone six years thinking they had lost Ian and then suddenly, by a stroke of luck, he had found him. It seemed surreal, like he had solved a mystery, and he was bursting to tell someone. _Never mind that he's a...well, not a nice person. They'll want to know. _"I found Ian," he blurted out.

For a moment, David just stared at him. Joshua remembered when there was animation and confidence in his eyes, but when he was cut off from his family, he changed too. But Joshua saw a flicker of that old assurance in his eyes before detachment and disbelief settled over them. "You found Ian," he repeated in a monotone voice. "Joshua. Ian died six years ago."

"It was him," he insisted. "I swear. I talked to him. I'm not making this up."

David paused. He ran a hand through his short hair before he sat heavily on the tattered armchair. "You're sure," he said slowly.

"I swear."

His eyes narrowed. "Hmm." His old friend hesitated, and Joshua could almost hear his mind working. David had every reason not to believe him; sometimes his information was faulty and he jumped to conclusions too quickly, but this was very different. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, Joven, but...Anthony saw him get shot. There was no way he got out of LA."

"Well, he did," said Joshua. He wasn't sure if he should tell David all of what Ian had informed him; his past would be his to tell. Joshua hesitated for a moment before he dug in his pocket. "Look." And he held up Ian's old watch, the blue and silver cybernetic one no one had any idea how to read. Joshua had swiped it from his hotel room, as Ian had been too drunk to notice.

David's eyes widened and he sat up straighter, putting his legs underneath him as though about to leap to his feet. "That's...that's his. Holy shit." He swallowed several times. Joshua grinned, returning the watch to his pocket. David believed him. He knew it had been a good idea to steal it, assuming the new Ian didn't try to shoot him once he realized what he had done. "You found him, then. What did he say? Why hasn't he contacted us for so long?"

"Well..." Joshua paused, and he sat on the couch. "I...well, he's a gunrunner now, David. And I think he's been through a lot..."

"A gunrunner," David repeated. And, too late, Joshua remembered that David knew more about gunrunners than any of them. "Not those – not those assholes who do whatever the fuck they want and make things worse? He's been in Anaheim, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Joshua said grimly. "And he's...well, he's a lot different."

David narrowed his eyes. "Really," was all he said.

Joshua swallowed and explained further. "I...well, his personality is...uh, not himself. He's not who he used to be at all." He shook his head, remembering Ian's cold indifference, and said wryly, "He almost shot me."

There was a short moment of silence. David closed his eyes briefly and looked at him. "So you're here to tell Anthony about this," he said.

"Of course."

David was silent for a long time. His eyes had drifted out of focus as he considered it, and Joshua was fidgeting as he awaited his response. "Joshua..." His old friend hesitated, his brows furrowed and his shoulders hunched, looking torn. "Anthony has been through a lot, too. It's not going to do any good to give him false hope that he's going to see his best friend again because Ian might not even want to see him. If Ian is as changed as you say, it might be better that we leave him be, and just keep Anthony out of it."

His word rattled around in his head, ringing in the silence. Joshua ran a hand through his hair and fixed his eyes on the floor. "I get where you're coming from. I really do. But I'm sick of seeing Anthony so sad. Don't you think that this might help him?"

David shrugged. "You're the one who talked to Ian, Joshua. You tell me if you think seeing him again will do him any good. Either of them."

Joshua hesitated. He remembered the cold detachment in Ian's eyes, the indifference when Joshua told him how the others were doing, the icy way he dismissed what Joshua had told him about Anthony. Maybe David was right. Ian didn't want to see Anthony again, and Anthony might not want to see how much his friend had changed. It might be catastrophic for both of them.

But before he could think anything more of the matter, the front door swung open suddenly and Anthony appeared. Joshua thought he looked terrible; he was trembling badly, his face was very pale, his eyes wide. Joshua knew at once that, again, this new world had taken its toll. His heart leapt to his throat. "Anthony," he said, reaching for his friend as he closed the door, looking stunned, "what happened?"

Anthony swallowed several times. He looked as though he had been crying. "They took Kalel," he said in an oddly calm hushed whisper. "The Russians, they took her...I don't know where they went, but...she's gone."

Silence settled over the three of them. Joshua just looked at the younger man as numbness worked its way up his limbs. He had never felt sorrier for anyone. Anthony had lost so much in just the first year of the takeover, and he had worked to keep those who mattered most to him alive – he had not deserved this. "I'm so sorry," he heard himself say.

Anthony collapsed onto the couch with his head in his hands. "I searched for her, for so long, hours I think, but I couldn't...I don't know what to do!" he cried. Joshua sat beside him, his hand on his shoulder. "She was taken away in a truck, I couldn't get to her on time – I don't know who to go to or if she can even be saved..."

He rubbed his eyes. Joshua looked nervously to David, who looked as though he didn't trust himself to speak. "We'll...we'll help you, Anthony," Joshua said hesitantly, "any way we can." _But I don't know what to do, either. _People disappeared very easily these days. Joshua could attest to that; he and David had searched for Sohinki for months to years, to no avail. There was a good chance Anthony would not see Kalel again.

Silence. Joshua's heart was racing.

"Anthony," David said suddenly; both of them looked at him. "Ian's alive. Joshua just found him."

Shock jolted through his veins; Joshua looked quickly to Anthony. He had lifted his head from his hands, staring at David with shock so overwhelming he may as well have been speaking a different language. Joshua wondered what the hell David was playing at, telling Anthony about this _now. _"What?" he hissed.

Joshua swallowed, bringing himself back to the present, and brought out Ian's old watch again. "He's...he's working as a gunrunner, Anthony, with those guys we told you about," he said quietly.

Anthony seized the watch. He stared down at it, nestled in his palms, and was silent for such a long time Joshua thought he had gone into shock. Anthony began to mutter something under his breath, unintelligible and undoubtedly worrying, and David and Joshua watched him anxiously. He kept running a hand through his dark hair. "He's alive," he repeated slowly, louder and bolder. He looked up at Joshua with a face so shocked and hopeful it made him look years younger, and it was one of the saddest sights of Joshua's life. "Ian's alive."

And both sadness and hope flickered in Joshua's heart when he saw happiness flash in Anthony's eyes.

"He's alive," Anthony said again, looking down at the watch with unfocused eyes. "And he's a gunrunner." He stood up quickly, clutching the watch as though it was a lifeline. He muttered something they could not hear again, before his words shifted, and Joshua's hopes sank. "He'll help me. He'll help me get Kalel back."

Joshua glanced at David again, hoping he would intervene. "I...I don't know, Anthony," he said. "Ian is...a lot different. You might not like what you find."

But Anthony only shrugged, unconcerned. "This new world has changed all of us. I'm not worried. I mean, it's Ian. He'll help me, no matter what." Something clenched in Joshua's heart; he really had no idea. Maybe David had been right, maybe they shouldn't have told him...

Joshua swallowed and tried again. "He's not the same person, Anthony," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry, but it's true."

His friend paid no attention. Anthony began to pace, his hands behind his back. "He'll help me. If he's working with those guys, I'm sure they can get her out of there. They'll work together." Joshua dropped his gaze, despondent and lost; Anthony had not listened. If he did find Ian, he would be in for another unpleasant shock. Anthony paused and looked at them. "I don't know where it is, though."

Joshua looked to David once more. He didn't know where in Anaheim their base would be, either. "I know where it is," David said, sounding tired. He swallowed before adding, "I'll take you there."

"Great," Anthony said. He was still shaking, Joshua noticed; he had just received two terrible shocks, losing his wife and finding his best friend... _He didn't ask why Ian hasn't contacted us after all these years, _Joshua thought nervously, before another thought sent an unpleasant jolt through his heart. _Perhaps Anthony already knows that answer. _Anthony suddenly looked to Joshua, and he had never seen more desperate eyes. "Can you watch Emily?" he asked him.

He winced. "I don't think I can. I'm about to be really busy at the hospital because St. Heart just shut down, so patients will be moving into ours. I have to be there." And with the injuries he saw on a daily basis, it was certainly no place for a child.

Anthony grit his teeth. "We don't have anyone else to watch her," he said, looking at no one again, his eyes glassy. "We might have to just –"

"Daddy?" a small voice said suddenly. All three men looked to the hallway to find a pajama-clad Emily pad slowly into view. "Where's mom?"

The words twisted Joshua's heart. He looked down uncomfortably as Anthony gestured for his daughter to come over to him. The little girl padded hesitantly toward her father, and he hugged her tightly. "Your mom had to go away for a bit," he told her quietly. His daughter blinked at him, worry disheveling her fine features. "We're gonna see her again, but first...I'm going to introduce you to my best friend."

* * *

><p>AN: Oh dear...

Anthony really has no idea lol. Somehow I don't think Ian is going to be happy to suddenly find Anthony there xD And somehow I don't think Ian will want to rescue Kalel either. Just a guess.

Next time: Smosh meets for the first time in six years. Lol. Definitely a dramatic chapter ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: HOLY CRAP THANK YOU for all of your reviews/feedback! You guys are amazing! I really had no idea this story would be so popular; I'm so glad you all are enjoying it :) Thank you, too, to the guest reviews I can't reply to - I really appreciate your guys' input too!

I'm sorry for the slight wait, but college has been kicking my ass, and I _just _got the time to finish chapter 4 this weekend. Blah.

So - a short scene from Lasercorn's point of view, a short flashback, and then _drama _from Ian's point of view. Yay!

Enjoy :)

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><p>Laughing, David grabbed the little girl around the middle as she shrieked with laughter. "Nooo, put me down!" she cried, struggling feebly in his arms.<p>

He turned her around until she was hanging upside down. "Are you going to poke me again?" he asked in a mockingly dangerous tone.

There was a pause. "Noooo..." Emily repeated, giggling harder, her face turning red.

"Then I'm afraid you're going to be held. You've lost your rights to walk."

"Aw, but Uncle David..." Emily Padilla laughed gleefully when he swung her around and placed her easily on his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his forehead as he held her little feet as they continued walking through the silent city. Those walking past ignored them entirely. "Yay! I'm so high up now! I'm even taller than you now, daddy." She moved her hands to David's hair, much to his displeasure, but he couldn't remember a time Emily had been let freely out of the house like this, and she was so happy – so he let it go.

They had been traveling for almost an entire day now; for most of the way they walked, though there were a few miles they were permitted a taxi. They had spent the night in the only hotel in the area still run by Americans. Though Anthony had been sure it was safe, and he seemed the least concerned about the dangers, David had still brought his pistol along. He kept it hidden and neglected to mention it to the younger man. Their backpacks were getting lighter, as the few rations they could take with were depleting fast, despite their efforts to eat sparingly.

David's eyes flicked over to Anthony. The taller man had been watching them, wearing an oddly sad smile. "You're really good with her," he told him.

The words reminded David of his own wife and son, lost somewhere in North District – David prayed every day that they were still all right. A flash of pain twisted at his heart, but he forced a smile. "Well, kids aren't that hard to understand. I was pretty much a kid myself when I worked at SmoshGames; our fans told me often enough." He grinned, remembering the days when their lives were much simpler.

Emily hummed something under her breath as she sat there on his shoulders. She began to pull at his hair; David gently grabbed her little hands and held them still. Anthony was grinning, too. "I remember. You still won most of the games, though. Mari, Joven, and I would usually end up in last place – unless the game was Mario or something." He smiled appreciatively.

He looked so happy, happier than he had in years, that it was difficult to voice what had been on David's mind the moment they had set out in search of Ian. "Anthony..." David looked at his friend, the man he had begun to rely on after his family was taken from him; when the dark eyes locked on his, he saw the sheer desperation. "Do you...don't you wonder why Ian didn't contact us after all these years?" When Anthony didn't answer, he continued gently, "He might not be willing to help you."

Anthony was silent for a long time. Emily sat quietly, listening but probably not understanding much of their conversation. At last, the taller man said, "I've known Ian since I was eleven. He's been my best friend for years...we've been through so much together, making Smosh, shooting videos for eight years... You just don't forget someone after you've worked with them for that long. Maybe you can say the same about Joshua or Sohinki."

The mention of Sohinki's name sent another flash of pain through David's heart, but he disregarded it. _Then why, Anthony, _he thought sadly, _did Ian hide for so long? What happened six years ago? _He swallowed. "Just...just promise you'll keep what I said in mind, okay?" he said.

Anthony shrugged. "I won't need it, but all right. I know you mean well."

David kept his gaze on the ground as he held Emily's little hands in his, preventing her from falling. Anthony had been through enough; he didn't need more despair in his life. But David had a feeling Ian had been through far more.

* * *

><p><em>May 3<em>_rd__, 2014_

_ Ian heard the explosions, the shouts, the gunfire, but he didn't open his eyes._

_ He was lying on his side in his cell. The cell that had been his prison for...he could not say how long. It could have been years for all he knew. Time passed very irregularly when he could not tell night from day and spent his hours in agony. _

_ He kept his eyes shut. The noise was nothing. Someone may have been undergoing an experiment, or perhaps the Russians were having a disagreement. Or he was hallucinating. There was a very good chance it was the latter, because sometimes his dreams were so vivid and real that when he awoke to the darkness, Ian could never tell if they had been real in the first place – if being trapped and tortured within the prison was the dream and what he experienced in his sleep was reality. Ian focused on breathing. His lungs ached as he worked to draw breath. Focus on breathing, figure out if it's real or not..._

_ A gunshot far too close. Ian flinched in shock and opened his eyes at last, afraid that whatever was nearby was going to harm him; sounds close to him were never a good sign. They might mean that they were about to hurt him, to watch him scream as they laughed and laughed... Ian began to tremble._

_ Voices. Shouts. Ian tried to lie still, but he was shaking so badly that they would never think he was dead; yet it was all he could do. His trembling worsened when he heard the cell door open. "Who's this?" a husky voice hissed. "Should we take the poor bastard?"_

_ Ian felt his heart skip several beats. English...! They were speaking English, weren't they? He hadn't heard anything other than Russian in so long...he forced himself to pay attention, even with the panic and terror twisting into something terrible in his mind._

_ "I'm not sure." Someone grabbed Ian's shoulder and turned him over; he swallowed several times, his eyes darting from one blurry face to another. "He looks broken. The Russians might as well have killed this one. Leave him, I'd say."_

_ Leave him... The words very nearly sent him into a panic; Ian forced himself to move, to speak. To the men's surprise as much as his own, he grabbed the nearest man's ankle. "Don't," he gasped out – his throat was raw, his voice very nearly gone. "Don't – leave me here."_

_ He had said something very similar to someone else... Ian had to blink away the sudden wetness in his eyes._

_ The men glanced at each other. "How old are you?" one demanded._

_ Ian could not see how that mattered, but he tried to answer as best he could. "Twenty-six," he said after a moment's thought; he'd had his birthday while he was stuck in this hellhole._

_ "Do you know your way around a gun?"_

_ The words were spoken too quickly for his muddled mind to understand, and he fought to work through them. "Do I...I'm sorry, I don't..." _

_ One of the men made an impatient noise. "Leave him, dammit. We don't need someone to take care of."_

_ "Luke, there's no point in leaving him here when he might be able to help. He's young enough to be useful, I think. We'll take him with us." Ian searched for the voice of the person who had decided to save him. His vision was blurry and indistinct, but he saw hard dark eyes and straw-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. The man looked down at him without much expression._

_ Another voice issued commands. "Check the bodies for any guns; I think most of the prisoners are dead anyway. Then let's get the fuck out of here before the Russians realize what we've done. I don't think they're all dead. Come on, kid."_

_ Ian was suddenly so relieved it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. It's over, he thought dully as they pulled him to his feet. It's over..._

* * *

><p>April 10th, 2019<p>

"_Fuck!_"

Ian threw the empty bottle against the wall. Broken glass littered the floor.

After a moment, John and Luke looked into the room. "What the hell is the matter with you?" snapped John. "You having some sort of crisis?"

_That little shit stole my watch, _Ian wanted to snarl. It was the only reminder he had of his old life, and now it was gone. "We might be getting visitors pretty soon," he said grimly. _And I don't fucking want to see them. I'd rather be back at that prison than see them again._

"Ah." John raised an eyebrow. "American?"

"Yes," he said.

"Hm. Should we just shoot them for you?"

Ian paused, considering his words. "Maybe," he said. _Then I won't have to see them at all. _"I might talk to them first...just to see what they want. But keep it in mind."

"If these friends of yours give away our location, Ian," Luke hissed in a warning tone, "we may have to shoot you, too." He was tall and thin-faced, with sneering eyes and lank dark hair.

Ian just looked at him. "They won't," he said, though he had no way of knowing that. He knew, however, that Luke did not need much of an excuse to kill him. Ian was the only one in the base aware that Luke was running a side enterprise – effectively taking money and guns away from the gunrunners Ian worked with.

He had found out accidentally not even a month ago, when he was out working on an assignment, and he just happened to see Luke make a deal with someone he had not been assigned. When Ian had confronted him, Luke was pissed he'd been found out. "We should have fucking left you there in that cell," he had snarled after the initial shouting.

Ian had agreed not to tell James about Luke's deception if Luke promised to allow Ian to work with him if James' enterprise ever collapsed. Luke hadn't been happy, but it was either that or get shot, and James would never stop asking questions if his best gunrunner suddenly turned up dead.

"All right," John said, "if you want them shot, I'll take care of it for you."

He swallowed a sigh. He had no idea what he wanted. "Thanks," said Ian.

John nodded once, and he and Luke left him alone.

Ian spent the next hour half in a panic and half in a fury. He destroyed a few more of his possessions, drank the miniscule remainder of vodka left in the bottle he kept in his room, and smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes, but he still could not calm his mind. It bounced back and forth, cruelly forcing him to remember the betrayal and despair as he lay bleeding on the street in LA, the months he spent in the prison, the last two words Anthony said to him: "_I'm sorry..._" Ian had never wanted to disappear from the world so badly.

By the time the worst of the panic had faded, he was leaning heavily against the counter in the kitchen, trying to figure out if he wanted to scream or cry. Every cupboard around him had been flung open as he frantically searched for another bottle of vodka. Even when he realized he was completely out, he still couldn't calm the storms in his mind. _All because I found out Anthony's going to find me, _he thought, hating himself. _Fuck. I'm so fucked up. _

It took another hour to decide that he couldn't calm down until he had a drink in his hand.

Ian was nervously smoking a cigarette when he emerged from his rooms. They had made their base in the ruins of an old apartment building. For three stories, the place was great, until one tried to go one floor farther and found open air and sky. A bomb had partially destroyed the top of the building, but had left the rest miraculously intact. It was as dangerous and unstable as the group of people living within, but it was safe and protected, as no one could enter or leave without going through the covered back doors. Ian had almost made it out of the base when James called to him from the lobby. Their boss was smoking a cigar and cleaning his silenced sub-machine gun, and he looked up at Ian through narrowed, dark eyes. James was just a few years older than him, always wore a high-collar jacket and his longish hair tied back, and was gaunt and worn in appearance. He was probably the only person in the world Ian still trusted. "You looked a bit stressed, Ian," he said in his raspy voice, looking at the cigarette in his hand. "I have a small assignment for you, if you are up to it."

He wondered if James somehow knew he had just smoked through half a pack and was on his way to get more vodka. "No, I can do it," he said. Anything to get his mind off of Anthony.

The guns had not yet arrived, but all he had to do was assemble and deliver them to a group of people they had worked with before. "The agreement was two hundred rubles," James told him, "and if they try to give you less, tell them we'll come after them, shoot them, and take all the money and guns they have. And if they say they'll simply shoot _you, _tell them we'll do that anyway, just with one less gunrunner."

Ian liked the way James handled business. "All right," he said with a small, grim smile. "I'll be back in a bit, but I'll take care of it when those guns get here."

He turned to leave. "Ian," James said, and he stopped. "Don't let those old friends of yours control you. You're one of us now, and they shouldn't still be influencing you after six years."

_It's not that simple, _Ian thought bitterly, but he appreciated James' words. "Thanks," he said quietly, without looking at him. "I'll...try to remember that."

He left the base feeling oddly guilty. James had noticed his distress and realized at once what was wrong; although, part of him wondered if their boss was just worried about losing his best gunrunner. Ian kept his head low as he walked through the crowded but silent gray city, toward the hidden market.

His thoughts wandered away from the conversation with James to what the fuck he was going to do about Anthony. He knew he could simply run away and hide until Anthony gave up and went home, but it seemed unlikely that Anthony would admit defeat after coming so close to finding him – and his comrades would not appreciate Anthony hanging around the base for that long. Then he remembered his first instinct had been to simply shoot him. Why the hell not? His former friend may as well have fired the shot that wounded him six years ago. He had left him to bleed to death on the streets of LA – it would be a cruel form of justice, and maybe even bring Ian some peace, if he just shot him as soon as Anthony saw the proof that Ian had not been killed. He had waited six years to take some form of revenge.

But Ian didn't much like that idea either.

When he arrived at the hidden market, a busy outfit situated in the remains of what had once been a parking garage, Ian still had no idea what to do. He forced the problem aside as he stopped beside the alcohol vendor and asked, in Russian, how much for a bottle of vodka.

The old man, who was missing an eye and sitting on a barrel, replied dully, "Fifty rubles." When Ian scowled, he added, "Or the pistol at your waist there."

The new currency was supposed to be Russian dollars, but it may as well have been guns.

Ian paid fifty rubles for the single bottle. The other gunrunners would be pissed at him for spending so much, but he could not recall a day he needed it more.

He took his time heading back to the base. He was angry, anxious, and above all, scared of what the next few hours would bring, the moment Anthony found him. Ian didn't know if he wanted to shoot him; but he was afraid that, if he did not, he would sink into another panic attack in front of the person who had condemned him all those years ago. He would _not _let Anthony see him like that. _Just shoot him, _a nagging voice at the back of his head urged him. _Just shoot him. It might bring you some form of peace. He deserves it, after he left you to die. _

But a part of him he couldn't explain told him that shooting Anthony wasn't the right answer. Anthony hadn't seen him in six years; he must have missed him, even if Ian didn't all that much. He wanted to check up on him, make sure he was doing all right, understand why Ian had kept himself hidden for so long, and above all, apologize. That had to be the reason for his visit, after all.

By the time Ian returned to the base, he had decided to simply see what Anthony had to say for himself and listen to the apology that was sure to come. After the betrayal six years ago, he _had _to have come to apologize at the very least. And hopefully Ian would not lose his head once he saw his old friend again. He didn't want to imagine his shame once Anthony saw, firsthand, how badly he had left him broken.

John was waiting for him in what had once been the lobby. "Three people have arrived, claiming they know you," he told him calmly. Ian felt his blood run cold. _No. No. Not yet, I'm not ready..._ "One tall guy, one stockier guy, and one little girl."

Ian nearly dropped the bottle. "A little girl?" he repeated incredulously. Holy fuck, Anthony brought the stupid _kid? _What the fuck was he thinking?

"Yeah," John said grimly. "Sure you don't just want to shoot them? I almost did, myself, but seeing the girl stopped me."

"That would be messy," Ian said, but his mind raced; he wasn't sure he could have shot the little girl either. It was bad enough that Anthony was here – had he brought the girl as a shield, so Ian wouldn't be tempted to just kill him as soon as he saw him? He grit his teeth. Six years later and Anthony was _still _fucking with him. Ian left the bottle of vodka within one of the cupboards they passed; he would undoubtedly need it later. "Where are they?"

"In the holding room," John said as he led him further into the building. "Which one do you want to see first?"

_Just fucking get it over with. _"Anthony," he said. It hurt his throat to say his name. But when John made a move toward the holding room, Ian said quickly: "Wait, just a moment." The very thought of what was about to happen had put his mind in a state of barely contained panic; suddenly he could remember all too clearly that night six years ago. The old wound in his chest throbbed. His hands were shaking as he fumbled for a cigarette; turning away so John would not see him almost lose himself, Ian lit it and took a long drag. The smoke was soothing, and it calmed his nerves just enough to prepare him. He was about to see the person who had caused him so much pain over the years; if Ian encountered any flashbacks, anything that made him look weak in front of Anthony, he would never forgive himself. "All right," he said quietly.

Ian kept his gaze on the dirty concrete floor when a very familiar figure walked slowly into view. He didn't look at him, didn't react to the sharp intake of breath, and when Anthony hurried forward and said, "Ian?" he was taking another drag on the cigarette. "Holy shit. Holy shit."

Anthony made a move as though he wanted to hug him, but something made him stop, and he just looked at him instead. Ian let him look at him. He had no idea what he might have done if Anthony tried to touch him – he could only imagine that the other man would have ended up on the floor, bleeding. His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt very forced himself to meet Anthony's gaze with indifferent eyes. "What do you want?" he said finally, his voice icy. He blinked once. Suddenly his mind was alight with screams and splatters of blood – his pulse quickened, fear grasped his heart, and Ian blinked again. The images were gone, but the terror remained. It was almost painful to keep his face impassive. _Keep it together...don't let him see how fucked up I am – _

Anthony blinked at him. Somewhere beneath the shock of discovering his friend was still alive, there was surprise at Ian's tone. "Where have you been? Why didn't you contact us for so long?" Ian eyed him without much concern. He was entirely the same person; he was older, yes, but not much had changed. He was the same man he had known since he was eleven years old, yet a despair twisted his heart when he met his dark eyes, a hatred he had kept buried for the past six years. Ian hated everything about him when he spoke. "I – I thought you were dead, Ian."

"I almost was." Smoke wafted from his mouth as he talked. It was becoming harder to quiet the memories. They had never been so loud. "What do you want, then, dammit? Money? Food?" _Apologize, _a small voice in the back of his head begged, _apologize for what you did, say you made a mistake, that you were scared, that you were a fucking coward...just tell me the truth. Do the right thing, damn it. _

Anthony didn't answer for a moment. "N-no," he said quietly. "I...I came to ask for help."

The word resonated in his head. For a moment Ian was so stunned he could only manage one word. "Help," he repeated. He didn't know how to explain to him everything that was wrong with what he was saying. Help. _Where was the help from you when I was lying bleeding on the sidewalk? _Ian thought bitterly.

His former friend wrung his hands. "Yes. Yes. Kalel's been taken, Ian. I don't know who else to turn to, but when I heard you were still alive, and working with these people, I thought maybe...you could help me get her back."

He just looked at him. "You're asking _me_ for help," he said slowly, as though trying to understand. The shock had broken through the haze of horrifying memories; for a moment, just a moment, they were silent, though flashes of images flickered across his mind once in a while.

Anthony clenched his jaw. "Yes! Please. I was hoping...I was hoping you would."

Ian stared at the man who had once been his best friend. He could not have imagined what his face looked like, but he hoped it was neutral, despite the fury and terror twisting his mind. Ian wanted to just start shouting at him, to make him understand. _Why the fuck didn't you help me when I was dying on the side of the road in LA? I'm not helping you. Forget it. Have you forgotten what you did to me six years ago?_

But he said none of that. He felt oddly cold when he met Anthony's gaze. He couldn't answer him – he had no idea what to say. "Why the fuck did you bring your kid here?" he demanded.

Anthony drew back and scowled. "There was no one to leave her with at home. Everyone was busy." He paused, and added, "Do you want to meet her?"

"No, I don't want to fucking meet her," he snapped. "You should have just left the stupid kid there."

His old friend was silent for a moment. Ian tried to read him, tried to understand what was going through his mind, but not only did Ian not care very much, Anthony looked so stunned he was almost devoid of expression. "What _happened _to you?" he said at last. "The others were right. You're not the same person."

"Well spotted," Ian snarled.

Anthony took a step forward, his fists clenched. Ian instinctively reached for the gun in his jacket, but he didn't draw it. He heard Anthony's voice echo in his head: _"I'm sorry._.." Both fear and anger had him nearly shaking, but Anthony was blind to the memories afflicting him. "Answer me, dammit. I need help, you might be the only one I can turn to. Help me get Kalel back. Please."

"I don't remember you helping me when I was shot in LA," Ian snapped. "How can you expect me to help you now?"

The older man flinched as though Ian had struck him. "Is that what this is about?" Anthony shook his head, and Ian's rage twisted his thoughts; his hand had closed around the gun and he listened to the blood pounding in his ears. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that. I had Kalel safe, I was safe – I couldn't risk going out again, not when there were Russians looking for any Americans to shoot."

"You left me to die," said Ian, his voice low and cold.

"You seem to have made it out," Anthony snapped.

Ian narrowed his eyes. Anger rendered him mute; it was like a seething, almost painful knot of fire in his heart. _Yes, I made it out, damn it, but at what cost? You have no idea what I went through in that prison. _How could Anthony dismiss what had happened so easily? Was he covering his own ass, trying to downplay the incident so Ian would help him rescue Kalel? _My memory works just fine, you asshole. I remember what you did._

Anthony was watching him, his arms crossed. "Look," he said when Ian said nothing more. "I'm glad you made it out of LA. I'm glad we discovered you're still alive – I wish you'd told us that six years ago, but I get that you were mad. I wish it hadn't happened like that. I really do." He swallowed, then added: "I'm willing to put what happened behind us. I'll forget that you led us to believe you were dead for six years – I'm happy to see you alive and well now."

Ian very nearly shot him right there and then, so absolute was his fury. So Anthony believed he had more of a right to be angry, did he? He really believed he was the one who had been wronged because Ian refused to contact them for so long. He had absolutely no idea what this betrayal had cost Ian. Ian's fingers were tight around the gun in his jacket. He did not know what was stopping him from drawing and aiming it.

Anthony took a step forward. Ian would have struck him if he moved any closer. "But Kalel's my wife now. I need her back, our daughter needs her back – I can't go on without her, not in this new world, without her to support me."

There was a pause. Ian looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time. He could see the desperation in his eyes; he had the face of someone who had very nearly lost everything. Ian had seen too many people with that look nowadays, and most of them were the desperate people he scammed money and guns off of. Desperate people made mistakes, often were not thinking clearly – and were easy to scam. No wonder Anthony so easily disregarded what had happened; losing Kalel had broken some part of his sanity.

But even upon learning that Ian was still alive, Anthony had not arrived simply to check up on him, to see how he was doing after all these years as Ian had thought, not even to simply apologize. No, he wanted something from him – the aide Anthony had failed to provide to Ian six years ago. _How _could Anthony think he would be ready and willing to help him now?

A million furious thoughts ran through Ian's mind at once, but he settled on none of them, instead preparing his answer. He turned away. "I'll...think about it," he said. He knew he was being maddening, but Anthony did not understand how changed he was, how hurt the betrayal had left him.

And indeed, Anthony's face contorted into a snarl. "You'll _think _about it?" he repeated vehemently. "Kalel could be dead by the time you make up your mind!"

"Then you shouldn't have put your faith in me," Ian said coldly.

For a moment, Anthony looked so furious Ian wondered if he was going to strike him. Through gritted teeth, he growled, "You better make up your fucking mind fast. What the hell do they want with her, anyway?"

Ian shrugged, indifferent to Kalel's fate. "She will be held at a prison while they decide what to do with her. She'll probably end up being sold into some sort of slavery, either manual labor or...other services." It took effort to keep his face impassive when the color drained from Anthony's face.

"Fucking hell, how can you care so little?" he demanded.

"Easy," he said coldly. "You shouldn't have let her run around LA by herself, which is how I assume she was taken."  
>"It didn't happen like that," snapped Anthony, but he couldn't have cared less.<p>

"Who else came with you?" Ian asked, ignoring this; he wanted to know who was the stocky man his coworkers had described.

Anthony scowled. "David," he said. "Joshua couldn't, because he had duties at the hospital."

It took Ian a moment to remember who David was. It had been easier to keep their names straight when Joshua was listing them one by one; and, indeed, they very rarely used their real names back in their old lives. "Lasercorn," he said slowly.

"Well, no one's called me that in years," said a familiar voice, "but yeah."

Both of them turned to find David walking a few paces from the holding room. "Emily is asking for you, Anthony," he said. The older man gave Ian a nod. "Hey, Ian. Good to see you again."

He had nothing against David. "You, too," he said gruffly. Ian looked to Anthony, who was seething and glaring and torn between continuing his argument or seeing to his daughter. It wasn't often he saw something so pitiful. "I want my fucking watch back," Ian told him.

Anthony dug in his pocket and threw it at him. Then he turned and headed toward the holding room without another word.

The memories nagging at him quieted somewhat. Ian and David looked at each other. Ian thought he looked well, despite the horrors of the last few years; there were circles under his eyes, and an air of sadness that never seemed to leave, but he still looked like the old Lasercorn. "I can't believe you're alive, Ian. I'm glad we finally found you. Though I wish the circumstances were different," David added sadly.

Ian wished he really had died six years ago so he wouldn't have had to go through that. He opened his mouth to give a retort David did not deserve, but the older man spoke first.

"So. I'm not going to ask you where you've been or why you didn't contact us – I imagine you covered that with Anthony, and you probably had your reasons. Just thought you should know that we all did miss you a lot, and I wish things had happened much differently. Our little group was never quite the same without you." David looked at him. There was a sincerity to his features Ian rarely saw back in the days they worked together.

Suddenly he was very thankful David had tagged along. No one had been that genuine with him since his life had turned to hell. It wasn't as easy for him to express that appreciation, however. "Yeah...thanks," Ian said, dropping his gaze. He swallowed, and asked, "How did you know where to find me?"

"Well, I was once selling some old guns of mine when the gunrunner had to make a break for this old broken building; some sort of emergency I guess, but I figured it must have been your base." As Ian scowled, knowing it had been Luke who had been that careless, David added, "Your group is rather notorious where we come from, Ian."

He shrugged, feeling suddenly defensive. "We just try to survive," he said.

David watched him carefully. "Did you hear about Sohinki?"

"Yes," he said. "Joven told me. And about Mari. And your – your family. I'm sorry, David."

The despondency clinging to his old friend's poise had never been more apparent. The other man's face fell. "Yes, well. It's not as though they're gone, at least I don't think they are. I might see them again." He raised his eyes and looked at Ian critically. "You know, Joven was wrong when he said you wouldn't want to see us again. I don't think you're totally lost. I mean, you haven't tried to shoot us yet."

Even Ian had to grin at that. "Thanks," he said dryly.

Anthony emerged from the holding room, but he did not bring his daughter. His eyes were steely when he locked eyes with Ian, and he felt a strange sense of satisfaction – at last, he finally understood. "So I guess we're waiting until you give us your answer, then?" he snapped.

"You might be waiting a while," Ian said, and he smirked at Anthony's obvious irritation. His former friend looked as though he had half a mind to argue when John walked up to Ian and said, "James told me to give you these."

The guns had arrived. His friends watched in stunned silence as Ian took the briefcase from John, opened it, and sat at the coffee table to assemble the guns within. The storms in his mind had quieted somewhat. Maybe, _maybe, _he would be all right...maybe he could really deal with this. It was a pathetic wish, he knew, but for someone who spent almost every night so drunk he had lost all sense of awareness, Ian thought he had handled the reunion well enough.

"Ian?" Against his better judgment, Ian looked at his old friend through narrowed eyes. "I get that you're not telling us your story completely. That's fine. Whatever. But answer this: where's Melanie?"

And just like that, the cold returned, encasing his heart in ice. Every time he blinked, he saw flashes of memory, each more horrifying than the last. Ian was shaking when he reached instinctively for another cigarette. He lit it. He hoped Anthony and David couldn't see his hands trembling.

"Where's Melanie?" Anthony repeated, his voice eerily calm.

He put his lighter away. He was proud of himself for keeping his voice even. "You can stay in the third floor room on the right. And I'll give you my answer...soon."

* * *

><p>AN: You guys can probably start making a few inferences...

Guess what? I already have most of the next _two _chapters written. Yay! I hope I actually have time to edit them and don't end up drowning in schoolwork again.

Next time: Drama when Ian meets Emily Padilla for the first time. I _hope _it'll be up later this week.

Thanks for reading guys! Let me know what you think! :)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: So much Anthony hate..I mean yeah, Anthony is being pretty unreasonable & insensitive, but Ian's not entirely blameless either. It really wasn't fair for him to keep Anthony in the dark for so long when he knew Anthony would miss him, & Ian's done some pretty terrible things in the time they were apart. Anyway I'm going to _try _to make Anthony a little more likeable in the coming chapters (not this one, though xD) but it might be a lost cause, haha.

Okay. This chapter and the next are pretty short & mostly focus on character development, so they'll be posted within days of each other.

Have some more drama.

* * *

><p>It was very late when Ian returned to the base.<p>

He had just finished the transaction James had assigned to him that afternoon, and all things considered, it had gone quite smoothly – no one had died and all the rubles were accounted for. It was a rare thing indeed when not a single shot had been fired, there were no injuries, and he was paid exactly what he had been promised. Good for the enterprise, perhaps, but after the tension and, Ian shamefully would admit, _fear _he experienced earlier that evening during the ill-fated reunion,he was almost looking for a fight. Anything to get his mind off of Anthony, his nonexistent apology, and his request for help.

Ian had thought Anthony would apologize the moment he laid eyes on him, to ask for forgiveness after the incident six years ago. But instead Anthony had dismissed it as though nothing more than an argument had occurred – as though he _hadn't _left Ian bleeding and dying on the streets of LA, and he fully expected Ian to get over it and move on. It was another blow to his already broken sense of trust.

_I should have expected it, _Ian thought bitterly as he climbed the stairs to his room. _Anthony never cared much about what happened to me. _He couldn't believe he had put so much faith in the idea that Anthony would apologize – why the fuck would he do that when he didn't even think he had wronged him? _I should have just shot him, _he thought, _I should have just aimed the gun and shot him, maybe it would have brought me some sense of peace, maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up if I'd just killed him. _But...in the midst of flashbacks and terror, a gunshot would be the last thing he needed to hear. So he hadn't done it. He'd left the person he hated most in the world alive, when he had killed Russians for far more trivial reasons.

He had never hated himself more as he walked through the third floor hall. Voices drew his thoughts away from the grim reality of what he had become, and Ian looked toward the first door on the right, where those staying inside had left it open an inch. He moved closer, listening.

"He's a gunrunner, Anthony. You want Kalel back, give him what he wants – guns."

"We shouldn't _have _to bribe him," came Anthony's angry voice. Ian smirked, happy that he was pissed. "He's still my best friend. He should be willing to help me no matter what."

Anthony's presumption had him seething, but he was surprised when David said, "He won't, Anthony. He's still angry, and he's held onto that anger for six years. Do you really think he's just going to forget what happened if you suddenly just show up and ask him to help you?"

Anthony made an impatient noise. "It happened six years ago. I didn't want to leave him there, but the circumstances were complicated – I couldn't just leave Kalel when it was still chaos outside."

_It wasn't, Anthony, _Ian thought, and he was listening to the gunshots and screams in the back of his mind. _When I called you, the Russians were gone...and you still wouldn't help me. _He didn't know whether to burst in and shoot Anthony for his betrayal, or hurry and find the nearest bottle of vodka to keep the memories and fury away. He heard David sigh. "I'm trying to make you understand why he won't help you. And I did warn you, you know."

"I never expected him to still be mad," Anthony admitted in a small voice.

Ian had heard enough. He backed away from the door. He remembered that he had left that bottle of vodka downstairs in the lobby – he would probably need all of it after what he had just heard. Ian hurried downstairs, found the alcohol, and didn't bother returning to his room. He sat in the armchair in the lobby and drank heavily. Part of him couldn't believe he had made it through the day without a full bottle of alcohol. He'd just met up with Anthony again, the person who had fucked up his life so badly, and the memories had become louder and more terrifying than ever before. Even with a drink in hand, he was thrown back and forth between past and present, unable to stop the flow of images from corrupting his senses.

He continued to drink. Anthony's last words echoed in his mind: "_I'm sorry, Ian._" He drank more. He heard the report of the bullet that had struck him, remembered fumbling for his phone, not knowing that it was useless, that the person he had decided to call would not help him, would leave him there. He raised the bottle to his lips once again. He heard the Russians mulling over whether or not to take him with them, remembering he had thought maybe _they _would help him, maybe they would patch him up and try to save him...instead they brought him to a that fucking prison hellhole. He still had too much vodka left. He drank, fighting to keep himself in reality.

He couldn't say how much time had passed when he finally fell asleep. During his panic, when he would completely lose himself, time passed about as irregularly as it had when he was stuck in the prison. He slept very lightly, as he always did during episodes such as these, and Ian blinked himself awake when he realized someone was watching him. With blurry, drunken vision, he first saw a pair of rounded, dark blue eyes, and for a moment he thought that Kalel had rescued herself. But then the world shifted into focus, and he found himself staring at a little girl. She stood nervously beside his armchair, simply watching him, biting her lip as though working up the courage to speak.

He knew who she was. And he hated her for it. "What are you doing here?" he said gruffly.

She rocked on her heels. "I just wanted to meet you," she said softly. Ian eyed her warily. Had Anthony sent her down here to try and reason with him? He reached for the bottle of vodka once more and took a generous gulp. "Does that taste good?" the girl asked, nodding toward the bottle.

He swallowed. "Not really, no," he said.

"Why do you drink it, then?"

Ian's mouth twisted into a cold smile. "It helps me forget," he said with complete honesty.

Emily Padilla frowned. She was an eerie mix of both Anthony and Kalel, Ian noted vaguely. Two people who'd made the most of this fucked up world, living together, supporting each other and simply being there. Whereas Ian had been imprisoned, lost everything, been homeless a few times, and needed alcohol every day to try and forget all that had happened to him. And sometimes there was no escaping the memories. "My dad says you shouldn't drink that stuff," she said after a moment. She was rocking nervously on her heels.

"Really?" Ian smirked. He tilted his head, considering his next words. "What does your dad say about me?"

She blinked at him. "Well...he says you're his best friend."

There was no humor in his laugh. "His best friend," he repeated, mostly to himself. "He _was _my best friend. If the situations had been reversed, do you think I would have left _him _there?" Emily blinked at him, having no idea what he was talking about. "I wouldn't have. I would have tried to save him, dammit." Ian took another drink, watching Emily closely. "What else has he told you about me?"

"Well...you used to work together. My dad says you made funny videos." She was eyeing him too, studying him; Ian wondered why the hell she had sought him out. Why wasn't her idiot of a father searching for her?

"That was a long time ago," Ian said gruffly. He barely remembered his previous life. "What does he say about me _now?_"

Emily blinked, her eyes darting around nervously. "He says...you're a lot different." She swallowed. "I think he said you've lost your mind."

Ian just looked at her. Part of him was utterly certain he had lost his mind; his soul had been broken and twisted, and he was a shell of the person he used to be. But he would not have lost himself so badly had Anthony not left him to die six years ago. "He may be right," he said in a deadly calm voice. Rage twisted his heart, and suddenly he hated her and the two people who had brought her into this world. "Did your dad ever tell you that he left me bleeding in a street in LA?" The girl's eyes widened, and she shook her head. "I didn't think so. I got shot. I asked him to help me, and he left me there. I was as good as dead thanks to him."

She swallowed. Her eyes darted to the floor. "M-my dad says you're gonna help me get my mom back," she stammered.

His laugh was cruel. "I'll do that when I have my fucking life back."

Emily could not have been older than six, but she recognized a swear word when she heard it. She shrank away from him. "That's not a nice thing to say," she said quietly.

"No, it isn't," Ian agreed. "But that's what your dad did. Anthony doesn't care; he didn't care about me then and he doesn't care now. All he wants is his Kalel safe and sound." He fished in his pocket for a cigarette and placed one between his teeth. He lit it, taking a drag. "And he expects me, the person whose life he fucked up, to just be ready and willing to help him. Anthony might have forgotten what happened, but I fucking didn't." He looked at the scared blue eyes watching him, and his rage twisted into something cruel. Ian leaned closer to her. His voice was sharp and harsh. "Tell your dad that I'm not fucking inclined to help someone who did that to me. Remind him what he did." His smile was twisted and bitter. "I lost everything because of him. So go on, tell him that."

Emily Padilla backed away. "You're...you're supposed to help me get my mom back," she repeated in a small voice.

Ian reached for the bottle of vodka. "Do you think that's likely?" he said coldly.

The little girl bounded away with a choked sob. Ian drank heavily. The memories were loud, contorting his vision, sending him back to the horrors six years ago. He tried to forget. He had to forget. He drank until the bottle was almost empty.

If he blinked once, he saw blood and darkness, heard screams of pain and terror, heard his own cries of despair. Another blink sent him back to his grim reality. Ian clenched the neck of the bottle. He wished he had more.

* * *

><p>"<em>Ian!<em>"

Ian jerked awake, the angry voice startling him back into the waking world. The bottle of vodka tipped precariously in his hand and he hastened to straighten it. He couldn't remember what he had done to piss someone off that badly, and despite the alcohol in his system, he tried to think. The voice shouted again, and he realized belatedly that it was Anthony. He almost groaned. Realizing the danger, however nonthreatening it seemed to him, he set the footrest of the armchair down and hid the bottle on the other side of the chair. Yes, he had definitely deserved Anthony's anger after what he had said to his daughter.

He could hear Anthony's footsteps drawing nearer. The door flung open.

"God dammit, Ian!" the other man snapped. "What the fuck did you say to my kid?"

Ian regarded him calmly. His old friend's posture was hunched and his hands had balled into fists. Compared to the Russians and angry gun dealers Ian had grown used to dealing with, Anthony didn't seem all that threatening. "I don't really remember," he said, trying to keep the slur out of his voice. He suddenly regretted drinking so much.

Anthony strode over to him. His face was white with rage. Ian swallowed a sigh and stood too. He very much wished the other man was not there. He had just wanted to sleep. Sleep, drink a lot, and forget. "Did you really tell her what happened six years ago?" Anthony growled.

He crossed his arms, fixing Anthony with a derisive gaze. He was already bored with his old friend's anger. "Oh, that. You mean the truth? I guess I may have."

Anthony seized his collar. He was gritting his teeth and his eyes were wide with anger. "She doesn't need to know about that," he snarled. "Do you really think a five-year-old needs to know about people getting shot and –"

"Like I was?" Ian interrupted. He wished Anthony would let go of the collar of his shirt. It dug painfully into the back of his neck. Memories nagged at him, but they were almost completely muted by the alcohol.

Anthony's eyes flashed. "That's completely different," he growled. "It was under different circumstances, I had no choice but to stay where I was - "

"No, you didn't," Ian said coldly, but his former friend ignored him.

His words came out quick and furious. "You can't go around telling lies to my kid, next time she wanders out here just bring her back -"

"What's wrong with the truth? Did you lie to her all these years?"

"She doesn't need to know –"

"What are you going to do when the Russians discover her and attack? Are you going to leave her bleeding on the side of the road too?"

Anthony pulled back his fist and punched him. Ian fell backwards over the coffee table, landing painfully on the hard floor. His head rang and his lip was stinging painfully. He raised a hand to his mouth. It came away bloody. There was a moment of tense silence.

He looked up at Anthony. His former friend's jaw was clenched, and he rubbed at his fist.

"Never," he snarled, "talk to Emily again."

Anthony turned to the door, but he was not yet done.

"And I know you've been drinking! I can smell it – here it is –"

Ian watched him pick up his bottle of vodka from the foot of the chair. His heart sank as Anthony made toward the door with it in hand. The man who had once been his best friend sent him a glance full of loathing.

"Yeah, I think you've had enough. See you tomorrow."

Anthony slammed the door behind him.

Ian closed his eyes and waited for his head to stop ringing. He felt numb, hurt, and oddly guilty – he _had _deserved the punch. Even he would admit that. No matter their issues from years ago, Anthony had not deserved to have his daughter threatened. _Or maybe I'm so fucked up I can't tell right from wrong anymore, _he thought bitterly. Ian slowly picked himself off the floor, using the arm of the chair to help him up as his head spun from the blow and the alcohol.

Anthony would probably try to apologize to him tomorrow. Hitting him had added to the many things Anthony owed him. He certainly hadn't helped his case, either, if he wanted Ian's help rescuing Kalel. Ian was probably the only one with the connections and expertise needed to save her, and Anthony had just punched him in the face.

Ian very much wished Anthony had at least left the vodka. He staggered to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked in the mirror. His lip was split and blood trailed down his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, too, from the alcohol and lack of sleep. He did not look like the person Anthony remembered at all. Had it really just been six years ago that he was filming Smosh and hanging out at SmoshGames? Time had made him bitter and unrecognizable.

He held the sleeve of his jacket to his mouth as he made his way back to the armchair. Memories were coming back again and he had nothing to quiet them. Anthony didn't understand why he needed the alcohol, and he certainly wasn't about to explain it to him. Ian closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he couldn't keep the memories quiet.

* * *

><p>AN: Yeah, nice job, Anthony.

I feel like I should apologize for the next chapter in advance xD It's going to be a _huge _feels train. Probably one of the saddest chapters I've ever written. I hope you guys are ready lol.

Thanks for reading guys, & for supporting this fic :D I really appreciate it!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Dammit. I know I said I would update this a couple days after chapter 5 was posted, but school got crazy. I had two tests, two programs, & I had to get ready to go home for the weekend. I finished this chapter on the bus ride home lol. Sooo glad to be back, but it's just for the weekend.

Anyway. This chapter is extremely sad & contains maybe sensitive material. This is another chapter I feel pretty bad about making you guys read lol.

Enjoy :)

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><p><em>May 23<em>_rd__, 2014_

_ "So. Do you have friends? Family? Someone you probably want to get a hold of?"_

_ Friends. Ian dropped his gaze to the floor of the hotel lobby, suddenly unable to meet James' eyes. His thoughts immediately went past Anthony and to the other four, but if not even his best friend would help him, what were they to him? Ian sat there silently, unsure of what to tell him. He had never felt so alone. _

_ It had been almost three weeks since they had rescued him from the prison. Ian spent his time recovering and trying to ignore the nightmares. His time in prison had left his body a wreck; he had lost far too much weight and his injuries were painful but healing, the gunshot in his chest finally healing properly. He spoke very little – when he realized what had happened to the country since the takeover, how bleak and chaotic everything had become, that his friends had to have thought he was dead, he became almost mute. He kept to himself within the temporary base, which had apparently been a hotel at some point, trying to stay out of the gunrunners' way and attempting to work through the mess of anger and terror clouding his mind. _

_ He didn't have friends, and his family was out of reach. And Melanie had been in Sacramento when the Russians had taken over. She would be safe, away from the conflict. He swallowed hard and shook his head. There was no one he wanted to see._

_ James watched him for a moment, but he was called away, leaving Ian to his fragmented, despondent thoughts. He had nothing – he was a broken shell of the person he used to be, worn and shattered from his time in prison and Anthony's betrayal. What the fuck was he going to do now? _

_ James returned a moment later with something in hand. "Is this yours?"_

_ It was a phone – and, indeed, the same phone he had used to call...his best friend. It hurt to even think his name. Ian took it and saw that it had been charged. "How did you get this?" he asked quietly. His voice was hoarse from lack of use._

_ "The Russians kept a stock of the stuff they took from the prisoners. We took all of it, found some useful things. A lot of phones, though. We just got enough power to charge them."  
><em>

_He turned the phone on with icy, shaking fingers. It had no service, of course, but it had somehow kept track of the last few calls and text messages he received. His blood ran cold when he saw they were from Melanie. He read through the texts and his trembling worsened. "Ian," the first one read, "I don't know what's happening, but some shit's going down where you are. I can't get ahold of you or Anthony. I'm starting to freak out. Please call me."_

_ The second was much shorter, but straight to the point. "I'm really worried. Please answer."_

_ By the third message, his heart was pounding painfully. "I don't know what's happened, but I'm going to LA to find you. If you get this, Ian, I'll be at Katie's house."  
><em>

_I'm going to LA to find you... Ian felt horribly numb when he lowered the phone. He thought that Melanie had been safe and out of reach in Sacramento, but when Ian had failed to answer her, she willingly went to LA to search for him – right in the thick of the chaos. He should have known she would do that for him. He wished he had used the last of his phone's battery to tell her to stay put instead of calling Anthony. _

_ He had to get to her. It took a few moments of searching around his clouded, muddled memory to remember where her friend Katie lived, but eventually Ian knew enough to ask the gunrunners how he could get to it from where they were hidden. James glanced at Luke, who was looking up from checking his own phone. Ian didn't like the look in their eyes at all. "That area's been quarantined," their leader said slowly. "They...they planned to exterminate everyone in the neighborhood."_

_ For a moment, Ian was not sure what he had said. It didn't make sense – exterminate meant kill, after all, and why would the Russians bother to harm civilians? But as the last six months played in his head, reminding him what their conquerors were capable of, his lungs tightened with fear and his pulse quickened. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "I need to get there," he said in a hollow voice. "Now. Please."_

_ They told him the best way to get to the neighborhood. They also told him there was no point. But Ian was beyond listening; he was there as soon as his weak, recovering body would allow him. It took him far too long and he was out of breath too many times for someone his age, but eventually, he found it._

_ Ian should have known he would be too late._

_ The neighborhood had been gated off, but he found a way around. There were trucks driving along the streets, patrolling – Ian had an idea of what they were looking for, so he hid from them. But when he came upon the correct house, someone was just leaving. Ian did not see his face, but he would never forget that the man's shoes tracked blood all the way to the sidewalk. He caught a glimpse of a large frame and one arm with a tattoo of a Siberian tiger._

_ The truck began to drive away. Ian was in a panic – it was so hard to wait until the truck was completely out of sight, but somehow he managed it. He ran for the house. He remembered almost stumbling, staggering, so frantic was he to reach it. They had left the door unlocked._

_ He had known what he would find, but seeing it shattered him. Blood caked the hardwood floors, making the room slick and smell coppery. One dark-haired girl lay in a pool of blood, her throat slashed. And beside her, lying on her stomach, was a young woman with wavy blond hair. _

_ Ian did not remember much of what happened after he saw her. He recalled turning her around, holding her, even as he lifeless eyes stared through him, seeing nothing, and her blood stained his clothes. He was sure he had been crying, yelling something that made no sense; perhaps saying nothing at all. It had been less painful wasting away in that prison. In his arms was the one thing keep him together, and now she was cold with death. He had finally lost everything. _

* * *

><p>April 11th, 2019<p>

Ian caught a bus and made his way across the city at the crack of dawn.

It was the best time to travel. Not even their conquerors liked to be up this early. The streets were clear, the explosions and gunshots were few and far between, and the dystopian city was suddenly so peaceful it was as though he had left Anaheim and found somewhere much more tranquil.

But he couldn't appreciate it much.

When his stop came around, the bus driver said good-bye to him. He'd taken this route so many times that even the driver knew him; though he never found out why Ian always disembarked at this stop, in the outskirts of what had once been a busy neighborhood. It was barren, ashy, and abandoned now. Some of the barricades were still standing. Ian walked the usual two blocks north, three blocks east, his mind strangely blank for the first time that week. Not even the trouble with Anthony could bother him now, not where he was going.

He found the backyard he was looking for and let himself through the gate. He walked to the corner of the yard, where a tombstone lay.

Ian brushed aside the leaves and rubbish that had fallen on her grave. He knelt beside it, looking over the mound of dirt without really seeing it. She had not deserved to be buried in this shitty little backyard, but Ian might have been shot trying to bury her elsewhere, and this location ensured that he could visit whenever he wanted. He folded his hands in his lap, his head bowed, as though praying, but his emotions were suddenly so twisted, he could not move.

He swallowed several times before speaking. "I'm sorry it's been a while," he told the mound of dirt. "I meant to visit you sooner, but...well, work got in the way, as it usually does. Among other things." He paused, not quite ready to tell her the reason for his visit yet. "It's your birthday tomorrow," Ian continued with a sad smile. "If I have my months and days right, that is. I don't know if I can visit you exactly on the twelfth, but I will try. If I don't...Happy birthday, Melanie."

For a moment, he lost the ability to speak. He had to swallow several times before he could continue.

"I can't pretend that I didn't come here for comfort, either, Mel. Something's happened, something I've been dreading for years...they've found me." He closed his eyes. "I've known it would happen. Anthony finally found me. He knows...well, almost everything."

A breeze blew by, rustling his hair. Ian laid a hand on the gravestone, fighting to speak through the lump in his throat.

"He wants me to help him. Kalel's been taken, or something, by the Russians. If she's not dead already, Anthony wants me to help him bring her back. But I can't..." He shook his head, wishing he had a cigarette. "I _can't _forget what happened, Mel. I just can't. He left me to die. You, too. He knew I was gone, or he thought he did, and he did nothing to protect you." Ian began to tremble, and he had to shake aside terrible memories before he could continue. "I shouldn't help him. I should let Kalel die just like he let you die. It would be a fair trade." He closed his eyes again, hating himself. "But that wouldn't be right, either."

He opened his eyes and looked at the gravestone. Wished so dearly that it would answer him. But it, and the city around him, was silent and grim.

"I wish you were here to tell me what to do, Mel. Hell, if you were, I probably wouldn't be so fucked up. You would hate to see me the way I am now." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry about that...I haven't been taking care of myself, but I don't give a damn anymore. It's been so long since I've seen you, Melanie. My drinking will kill me anyway if I don't slow down, but if I do decide to go on this next mission and rescue Kalel, I almost hope it'll be my last. I don't want to go on like this anymore."

Ian tried to imagine what she would say to that. But it was getting harder and harder to even picture her face.

"Maybe I'll get to see you again sooner than I thought," he said with a small smile. "There's nothing in this world left for me. I'm done with it." He closed his eyes briefly and bowed his head. "I thought you would want to know...Mari is in the hospital, Mel. She was attacked and she's been in a coma for three years. I remember how close you two were." He shook his head. "I regret a lot of things, but maybe that most of all. I should have been there. I should have protected her from whatever was trying to hurt her. Instead I was hiding in Anaheim, too pissed at Anthony to bother letting them know I was still alive."

He didn't have to imagine what Melanie would say to this; he already knew.

"You would want me to help her, wouldn't you? Forget everything and just try to help Mari." But he shook his head. "She's in a coma, and she might never recover. I don't know if I could dedicate so much time to protecting someone who might never wake up. And she's got people watching her. Joshua's there all the time, apparently. He works in the same hospital." He swallowed hard. "If she ever wakes up, I'll be there for her. But not now."

He was silent for a long time. Ian watched a tiny gap in the gray sky, a speck of blue peeking out amidst the thick silver. It was a miracle; there had not been enough explosions or fires recently to keep it completely gray. He had not seen blue sky in months, it had seemed. Perhaps the war was finally dying down. But Ian remembered thinking that many times before. Without a doubt, one side would do something to stir things up, and things would begin again. He turned his gaze to the still grave before him.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Melanie. Anthony...He didn't apologize. He doesn't think what he did was wrong at all. I think losing Kalel has messed with him, but...if he'd just apologized, it would have helped. It would have fixed some part of me that's broken because of what he did, and I would have been more inclined to help him. I don't know, Mel. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'll think about it for a while on my way back to the base, but I really can't see myself helping Anthony. I can't, after what he did. I just can't forget it, or forgive him." He closed his eyes briefly. "I know you would hate that. I know you believed in second chances. But this...I don't think I can forget."

He stayed there as long as he dared. It was the only place the memories and flashbacks couldn't touch him, where they suddenly lost their power to hurt him. Ian had begun talking to the grave shortly after he began work as a gunrunner. He felt a bit stupid at first, but he could not deny that it had helped – after speaking with her, he always found the storms in his mind were calmed, and just for a little while, he wasn't as broken. He sat there, his eyes closed and his heart hollow, wishing things had happened differently, and that he had arrived in time to save her.

Ian opened his eyes. It was time he dealt with Anthony instead of just drinking and running away from his problems. Talking to her had helped, as he knew it would, and Ian had his answer at last. He was going to give Anthony the same help his best friend had given him – Kalel could stay where she was.

* * *

><p>AN: Hmmm. How is Anthony going to convince Ian to help him now?

Also, is it any wonder Ian drinks xD This chapter was so hard to write. I like Melanie a lot lol so it hurt to do that.

Next time: Enough of this drama/emotional stuff. Next chapter actually has action & plot lol :D I hope I can get it posted soon.

Thanks for reading! :)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: What an awesome week for the Smosh fandom :D I haven't played Food Battle: The Game yet because my phone can't handle it lol but I heard it's awesome! Can't wait to try it out.

So; this chapter has three POV changes, the last flashback for a while, & lots of drama & violence lol. Writing this reminded me a lot of my Outlast days, haha. Good times.

Enjoy, & happy nine years of Smosh.

* * *

><p>"<em>There<em> you are."

Anthony hadn't meant to welcome Ian back with quite so much venom in his voice, but his patience was wearing very thin. His former friend barely glanced up as he eyed them all standing there in the lobby, waiting for him. "What now?" he snapped.

"Where the hell have you been?" Anthony growled. David and Emily stood nervously beside him, unsure of what to do or say. "I wake up and your buddies tell us you're not even here –"

"I'm not going to ask your permission whenever I go somewhere," Ian said quietly.

Even though he had heard it the day before, the icy way Ian spoke had him pausing with a pang of unease. _Is this really the same Ian I remember? _There was no trace of the ever-happy person he had known as a boy; nor of his smiling, laughing best friend, always looking for a way to make someone laugh. Now, those blue eyes were cold and haunted – Anthony had never seen anyone look at him so coldly, actually, and it scared him. His face was worn, thin, and a scar traced from his hairline to his right eyebrow; he had grown his beard, as usual, but it looked rather unkempt, and his hair was cut short and indifferent. "I want my answer," he said bluntly.

Ian just looked at him. "Here's your answer. No."

There was a ripple of tense silence; Anthony felt something seize his heart. He clenched his fists, feeling the heat rise to his face. "_What? _You made us wait around here for a day while God knows what's happening to Kalel only to tell us _no?_" His mind kicked into overdrive; how the fuck was he going to save her now? It may very well be too late because of this.

"Exactly," Ian said indifferently. He had taken out another cigarette, and Anthony watched him light it. _When the fuck did he start smoking? _"You shouldn't have punched me in the face last night."

David's head snapped around to look at him; Anthony held his glare the best he could. He had not told David that his temper had snapped completely when he had confronted Ian the night before, and he was regretting that now. He forced himself to speak. "I _am _sorry about that," he ground out, but he couldn't keep his voice apologetic for long. "But even then – you knew, you _knew_ you weren't going to help us, you were just going to leave Kalel there –"

"I told you not to put your faith in me." Ian looked calmly back at him, and the apathy prodded at his temper once more.

"Fuck you! Are you really going to let Kalel die because you can't get over what happened?"

"Anthony..." David began.

Ian's expression was so blank he could not tell if he was entering a deadly rage or if he was utterly indifferent to his words. "You have no idea what that cost me," the other man said quietly.

Anthony wanted to scream at him. _This is more important than your issues, for fuck's sake. _"I didn't want to leave you there, dammit! Ian, please." With effort, Anthony forced the fury out of his voice and tried to persuade him. "Don't let Kalel die because of this. She doesn't deserve that." He had been trying hard not to think about what Kalel was going through, but the image hit him like a physical blow as his words trailed off; suddenly he could think of nothing else but his wife sitting in a cell somewhere, her skin bruised and bloody, her stomach rumbling as she began to waste away.

Surely, _surely _Ian would see the same thing, and he would change his mind...he was his best friend, after all, he would understand –

Ian just looked at him. Anthony never realized how much contempt and iciness his expression could hold. "I gave you my answer."

Anthony did not know whether he was about to start shouting or punch him again, but he did not get the chance to react – the hall was suddenly filled with frantic gunrunners, scurrying about as they tried to attend to some problem. Too many of them held guns for his liking. He looked around at them, his anger forgotten. "What's going on?" he demanded, a bit nervously; he fumbled for Emily's hand.

Someone threw Ian a bulletproof vest. "The Russians found us," he said as he put it on.

"_What? _What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"Whatever you want," his former friend said dismissively. "I don't really care."

And with that, he disappeared toward the stairs.

Anthony scowled at him, but he could hear helicopters approaching and people yelling in various languages he could not understand – his hand gripping Emily's, he, David, and his daughter hurried toward the exit. Whatever conflict the gunrunners had found themselves in, they were _not_ going to be a part of it.

* * *

><p>They were escorted at gunpoint into a separate building. David kept looking over his shoulder, searching for Ian; he never saw him. He didn't want to leave him there, right in the middle of the chaos, but what the hell could he do? Ian hadn't even questioned the idea that he would be involved in it. David worried for him and prayed he would make it out all right, as there was not much else he could do to help his old friend.<p>

His heart was pounding when the stern-looking gunrunner guarded the door; they were hidden within the confines of a separate storage, where the gunrunners apparently kept the far more valuable loot. It was a rather small space with a locked back room, with boxes piled up to the ceiling with stuff, but David didn't really care about the room's features. He was about to ask how long they had to stay when Anthony let out a horrified gasp, scaring him into whirling around.

"Where the fuck is Emily?" Anthony said, his voice tight with terror.

David felt his heart leap to his chest. He looked around, but the room had no hiding places other than the boxes, and they were all stuffed with valuables - he could not find the girl. "Anthony, I –"

"Is she still in the fucking building?" his friend demanded. He strode up to the guard. "I have to go back – let me go back. Please!"

"No one leaves," the guard said in a deep monotone.

"My daughter's in there!" Anthony cried; when the guard deemed it necessary to point his gun at him, David had to hold him back to prevent him from doing something monumentally stupid. "Please, Emily's still in there, I've got to get to her –"

"So is Ian," David reminded him gently. He had been watching the door of the gunrunners' base; he had not yet seen their friend leave.

Anthony let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sob. "He won't help her. He hates her. He hates all of us."

_I don't think that's true, _David thought. "He might still do the right thing. Don't give up hope yet."

Anthony bowed his head, and David heard him let out another choked sob as he surrendered himself to simply waiting. He felt terribly for him; he placed a hand on his shoulder and looked out at the building across the alley. David could not forget the unfeeling way he had dismissed what would happen to Kalel – some part of him wondered if he could do the same to Emily if he happened to stumble across her. _Come on, Ian, _he thought anxiously. _The person I remember wouldn't leave her there. _

* * *

><p><em>May 27<em>_th__, 2014_

_ "All right. That's enough."  
><em>

_Ian did not even look up. He stared at the floor, his vision blurred and indistinct, and he felt utterly numb. It was a quite a difference from the overwhelming emotional pain over the last few days, but he had hardly noticed the change. He was as lost as he was unresponsive. He could not get the image out of his mind, of her lying there, unmoving, so still, so cold..._

_ "Hey. You." James prodded his shoulder, hard, and Ian blinked up at him. It was so hard to focus on anything other than the images he could not rid himself of. "You've sulked enough. It's time you did something useful."_

_ "I can't," Ian heard himself say. _

_ "Yes, you can. I know how you feel. I've lost people, too. A lot of people. Listen to me." He drew closer to him, and Ian forced himself to pay attention. "You want the Russians to suffer for what they did, right?"  
><em>

_The Russians? He hadn't thought about it much, but yes, he supposed that was correct. He nodded slowly._

_ "They fucked everything up. They hurt you, they killed people you care about. Do you know you can do – what you've already done – to get back at them?"_

_ He shook his head._

_ "Live," James said shortly. "They never intended you to survive the prison, but somehow, you did. Turn that anger against them. Make them regret that they have created an enemy."  
><em>

_"I can't do it," he heard himself say. "I'm not...I'm nothing special."_

_ "You're angry," James told him. "They've taken things away from you that you can't get back. That will be enough." Ian hesitated, trying to think, but it was so hard to see past a mess of blood and blond hair. James handed him something; a pistol, he realized. He had no idea if it was loaded or not. "I'm going to teach you to shoot," said James. "You might need to know, where you're going. Then there's a briefcase on the table out front. Deliver that to what used to be the apartment building on 6__th__. Don't fuck this up."  
><em>

* * *

><p>April 11th, 2019<p>

Ian heard the helicopter approaching.

He knelt behind what remained of a wall of the room. The fourth floor was open to the sky now, the bomb having torn out the entirety of the floors above. The wind swept through his hair, and with the fog and the general haze over the city, it was difficult to see more than three or four buildings down. He checked the rounds in the sniper rifle one more time and counted the extra ammo in his pocket. It was not as much as he would have liked, but it would do. All he needed to do was take out the chopper and kill any Russians that make it into the base.

It sounded simple, but Ian had been through enough of these situations to know that they didn't always go as planned. With his luck, this would go to hell very quickly. He had several ideas as to how the hell they had found them; it was entirely possible that either he or Anthony had led the Russians right to their base. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but not one he could dwell on much – it had happened, the Russians had found them, and now they had to deal with it the only way they knew how. Ian raised the rifle, testing the sights.

He could see a fellow gunrunner, Jack, kneeling amongst the wreckage on the other side of what had become the roof. Ian would have strongly preferred to be up here alone. He'd only done a few missions with Jack, and from what little he had seen of him, Ian knew he was a bad shot and quick to flee. It would have been just as effective if Jack wasn't there at all. There was no room for cowards in a situation like this.

The helicopter drew closer.

Ian placed the rifle on the broken bit of wall, angling it slightly, the better to aim if need be. He looked through the sights and found the helicopter on its way, weaving through the buildings still left standing.

He could hear gunshots echoing through the halls downstairs. The others were in a battle of their own; the Russians had decided to attack from the roof and ground floors, as James had known they would. Ian would join them if he took out the helicopter and survived.

He lined up the shot. Waited for them to come closer, waited for a clear shot of the pilot. Ian could see the guy sitting behind the controls of the stolen helicopter. There were a couple guys with guns in there with him, which was unsurprising. Ian waited a moment later, holding his breath, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet left a dent in the windshield, and the chopper peeled off to the left. The guys within brandished their guns, searching for the sniper. So they had bulletproof glass; they'd learned since last time, apparently. All it would do was delay the inevitable. Ian was a good enough shot that all he had to do was wait for a different angle. He drew back, reloading and listening to the gunshots from the floors below, but his head jerked around when he heard a report from his right.

"Stop shooting, you idiot," Ian hissed at Jack, who lowered the sub-machine gun at once. The other man sent him a dark look that he ignored. "I'm going to try to take out the chopper, kill anybody if they reach the –"

Bullets sprayed the wreckage. Ian recoiled behind the wall, clutching the rifle, his jaw clenched in frustration – the Russians couldn't find the sniper, so they were content to just shoot until they hit something. "Then take out the chopper!" Jack snarled in response.

_I would have, but you gave them a general idea of where we are. _Ian was scowling as he picked up the rifle and weaved, crouched and low, through the ruins – the helicopter was coming back for another attempt. He found a spot precariously out in the open, but it wouldn't matter so long as he shot the pilot. He half knelt amongst the wreckage, the rifle propped up and aimed at the approaching helicopter. Ian knew he would not get another shot – if this failed, the guys within the chopper would have a clear shot of him, and this would be over very quickly.

The helicopter peeled slightly to the left.

Ian pulled the trigger. The bullet shot past the guys with the guns.

Almost instantly, the helicopter jerked violently – Ian ducked behind the nearest pile of debris as bullets sprayed the spot he had been a moment before. The chopper veered toward the ruined building, far too fast, its nose dipped. He could hear the Russians within shouting and preparing to jump, but the helicopter dropped too quickly; there was a tremendous crash only fifteen feet away. He heard the sickening sound of steel clanging and twisting against concrete, screaming and shouting, before part of the chopper exploded. Half of it fell to the roof in twisted bits of black steel, and the other half – the one with the cockpit and rotor blades – hurtled toward him.

There was an eerie _screeeeee _noise as the front half of the chopper scraped against the debris, thrown forward by its momentum – Ian could see the blades coming closer, clanging on the concrete with each rotation, and he found himself with nowhere to go. He pressed himself against the broken wall and the blades drew closer; the sharp steel struck the concrete over and over again, in a powerful ten foot arc, smoke and flames billowing behind the broken helicopter. Ian held his breath, trying to get as far away as he could. The broken half wall was pressed against his back.

The helicopter came to a screeching halt not even a foot away from him, angled harshly on its nose. Its blades had gotten stuck in the pile of debris of what had once been part of a bathroom; they twitched sporadically as the mechanism sparked. Ian grasped the broken half wall, pulling himself up a little shakily. He eyed the blades as though waiting for them to spring to life. He was lucky to be walking away from this at all; he knew he had come very close to being chopped in half.

Ian stood on the eerily silent roof. The only sound came from the crackle of the flames from the crash. He checked the cockpit of the broken helicopter; all that remained were the bodies of the pilot Ian had shot and another who had presumably died in the crash. He hesitated, trying to remember if there had been more than one gunman in the helicopter. It was entirely possible that he'd managed to jump out before the crash and was waiting for a clear shot of him.

But he could not remain on the roof waiting for something that might not even happen; and he didn't value himself enough to care much about the risk. Ian eyed the broken remains of the other half of the chopper; it had landed right where Jack had been waiting to shoot. He could see no sign of the other gunrunner now, even when he walked over to investigate the wreckage. He was probably dead, and Ian wasn't going to waste time trying to find the body of an idiot who had very nearly gotten them both killed. The communicator in his ear sprang to life suddenly, the voice on the other line fuzzy with static: "_Ian, we need your help immediately,_" and he recognized James' voice at once. Fuck; he'd wasted too much time taking out the chopper when the other gunrunners were in trouble.

All right – the helicopter had been taken care of, as per James' instructions. Now all he had to do was prevent the rest of his coworkers from being torn up by the Russians' bullets. Ian found the staircase, which was dusty and had bits of debris strewn around its steps, and walked slowly to the floor below with his gun held at the ready. Ready to shoot, waiting for the inevitable Russian gunman to appear, shaky and adrenaline-fueled from his encounter with the helicopter; and all he wanted to do was curl up in the armchair in his room with a bottle of vodka.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused, listening hard; his blood ran cold when he heard the muttered voices of a pair of Russians. How the fuck had they gotten up to the third floor? Where were the others? Maybe he was too late to save them. If he was truly facing the entirety of a Russian assault by himself, he was better off jumping off the roof to try and make it out of this alive. He started badly when he heard gunshots – but they came from the floor below. Ian heard the Russians abandon their conversation and bolt toward whatever was going on downstairs.

He broke away from the wall, aimed at their retreating backs, and shot both of them. There was a yelp and a spurt of blood; Ian saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and without pausing to think, he ducked into the nearest room as he heard someone preparing to fire; there was a muttered swear. Ian made sure the room was clear and silently reloaded his gun. Fuck; now one of them knew where he was, and he'd gotten himself trapped in this room. He shouldn't have blown his cover like that, but he couldn't let those gunmen reach the others...

There was nothing he could do but wait for the Russian to find him. Ian listened intently, but it seemed the guy was hoping he would show himself first; if the other Russians realized what the guy was guarding, that would be it for him. He looked quickly around the room and realized at once to whom it belonged – only Luke would be crazy enough to display the grenades he had collected over the years on the shelf. Ian looked quickly to the doorway; still nothing. This was an unbelievably stupid idea and might render him worse off than before, but what choice did he have? His heart pounding painfully in his chest, he reached for the closest grenade. His hand grasped the cold surface just when he heard a creak of movement from the hall. He ripped the pin out with his teeth and tossed it through the doorway.

Ian had only a few seconds to prepare himself for the explosion that followed; he hid himself behind the wall as the second monstrous _boom_ he had experienced that day resonated through the entire building, shaking the walls and the closet doors and, most worrying, knocking a few of the damned grenades off the shelf. Ian watched them with wide eyes, his heart stopped completely, but their pins seemed to be in place. He heard a terrible scream from the hall as smoke wafted into the room. Ian rose to his feet, his gun at the ready, and moved cautiously to the doorway.

The grenade had left a smoldering hole in the middle of the hallway, which he supposed he should have expected; it was inconvenient and might slow him down even more, but at least the Russian was taken care of. Ian could see his body lying on the floor below, so badly burned, with bits of him missing, he was probably unrecognizable to his buddies. The edges of the hole in the floor were seething with sparks of flame, but with luck, they wouldn't collapse when he tried to make his way out of there. He eyed the body on the floor below, trying to judge the distance. He didn't want to jump; he'd probably hurt himself, and he might land right into a nest of Russians waiting for him. Ian looked back at the grenades in the room behind him and considered taking them with him, but he was much better with the pistol anyway and he didn't like the volatility of grenades. There was a very good chance he would blow himself up trying to use one. Turning back to the hallway, he placed his hand carefully on the door pane and prepared to leap across.

But a strangled sob caught his attention.

Ian turned sharply. The sound had come from the open room across the hall, closer to the staircase to the roof than the way he intended to go. He hesitated, sure he had imagined it, but the sob turned into outright crying, and suddenly Ian completely forgot the situation. The distance from the room in which he was stuck and back to the rightward hallway was not as far; he stepped nimbly around the hole in the floor and went to investigate.

He saw her right away. Emily startled severely when he stepped into view, but she didn't run. Her face was streaked with tears and she held her hands close to her chest. For a moment, they stared at one another. She started to cry. "Emily?" Ian said blankly.

The girl let out a choked sob, her tiny form shaking.

"Emily, come on," he said.

She started toward him. "I tried to find you," she stammered. "You didn't leave with Dad and Uncle David, so I thought you –"

"I know," he interrupted. He felt strange. Why the fuck was he helping her? She was the very thing that Anthony had chosen over him, living proof that his former best friend had been living a far more comfortable life than Ian had.

But he had seen too many kids killed in this new world. Homeless children just trying to survive would be shot for stealing, and it hurt every time he saw another one die. Ian may have hated her parents, but Emily did not deserve to be left to die because of grievances that occurred six years ago.

She held her hands close to her chest. "I'm scared," she mumbled.

The earpiece came to life once more. "_Ian! We need help NOW!_"

"It'll be okay," he said to her, hardly aware of what he was saying. "Come on."

He had to get her across the gap he had created with that grenade somehow, and apart from throwing her into it and hoping she would somehow make it, he didn't really see another option other than picking her up and taking her across himself. Ian lifted the little girl, and she clung, terrified and frozen, to his neck. She was a bit heavier than he'd thought. With Emily held with one arm and his gun in the other hand, he leapt across the gap the grenade had created, landing stiffly on the other side. He knelt there for a moment, hardly daring to breathe; he could have sworn he felt the floor creak, as though it was about to break and crumble some more.

Emily was shaking in his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

"Y-yes," she stammered.

Movement in the hall right ahead.

He shot the man who had hesitated just a fraction too long, and the Russian collapsed in the dusty hallway as blood pooled around him. He placed Emily carefully on the floor, and with his gun at his side, Ian walked silently over to the body to search for any ammo.

"You shot that guy," Emily said slowly from behind him.

"Yeah." He pocketed the guy's gun, which only had a few rounds. He looked back at her; the girl had paled and was frozen to the spot. _Well, Anthony, she knows the truth of the world now. _Ian had just killed a man right in front of her. He couldn't imagine her father appreciated that much, and he didn't really care. Sheltering her from the realities of what was going on might help with a few nightmares, but in the long run, a naïve girl could help no one, not even herself.

Emily stayed silent. She watched him with wide, shocked dark blue eyes. If she was smart, she would run away as soon as she realized what he was. But instead the little girl walked up to him, her small hands folded nervously. Her dress was ripped in places.

He heard shouts and gunshots and he knew they couldn't stay there much longer. "Let's go," he muttered. "Stay behind me."

They were still on the third floor; they had a ways to go if he wanted to get her to safety. _Dammit Anthony, keep better track of your damned kid, _he thought bitterly, but his mind became sharp and focused as he peered cautiously into the stairwell. He listened; he could hear nothing but the distant sound of gunshots, and for all he knew, they could be part of an entirely different fight. Ian glanced back at Emily. The little girl had the sense to be silent; she was anxiously waiting for his instruction.

_What the fuck am I doing? _She was not his responsibility. She was a very painful reminder that Anthony had made the best of the takeover while Ian was left to suffer. So why, _why _did he feel the need to save her? No one would blame him if he left the little girl to be shot by the Russians when her father had left him to die six years ago.

"Come on," he muttered, his gun held at the ready.

Emily padded silently behind him as he moved into the hall. His mind raced; there was only one way out of the building, but with the Russians around and waiting for him, there was very little he could do to get the girl out safely. He considered waiting until the fight was done – it was the only way he could think that they wouldn't encounter any Russians. But the others were waiting for him, and despite Ian's disregard for their well-being thus far, he wasn't about to abandon them. And there was the possibility that they wouldn't make it through the fight without him. The gunrunners might have a better chance if Ian arrived from upstairs and shot them in the back.

That plan quickly went to hell when two Russian gunmen appeared in the opposite stairwell.

Ian fired a shot; he seized Emily and ducked into the nearest room, but not before he heard a report of a gunshot and agony blazed across his right shoulder. He cried out in pain, very nearly stumbling over the couch, sinking to the ground and swearing loudly as he looking at the blood running down his arm. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, nicked him, but it still hurt like hell. He grit his teeth as he waited for the Russians to appear. He was well aware his bullet had missed.

Emily knelt beside him, trembling and watching him with wide blue eyes. "You're hurt," she stammered.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Try to hide before they –"

He saw someone peer around the corner; the gunman attempted to surprise him while he was still collecting himself, but Ian was ready. His first shot hit the guy in the arm – as he swore and fell back, the second shot splattered so much blood across the wall there was no way he could survive. Ian got up slowly, keeping his gun fixed on the doorway. The other guy was taking his time.

Ian ignored the pain in his shoulder and stepped cautiously toward the doorway. "Stay here," he hissed at Emily without taking his eyes off the portal. The girl was frozen to the spot anyway; she wasn't going anywhere.

His heart pounded in his ears as he listened for the gunman. Dammit – he shouldn't have gotten himself stuck in a room again, especially with no grenades to help him this time. If Emily hadn't been there, messing up the mission when he was supposed to be helping the others...Ian shoved the thought aside at once. Saving her had been the right thing to do. He was sure it had. But it didn't help that he'd gotten stuck again because of her. Ian paused by the portal, listening hard; the gunman was trying to be silent, staking out the room until Ian was forced to show himself. He wouldn't give him the chance.

"_Ian! For fuck's sake, where are you?_"

The building was suddenly so silent that the broadcast seemed deafening to his ears; and it was loud enough for the man to hear in the hall. Ian saw him move slightly into view, puzzled by the noise, and it was the last mistake he made. Ian shot first, The Russian jerked violently back and collapsed in the hall.

He gestured to Emily. "Let's go," he said.

The girl hesitated. "My ankle hurts," she mumbled. "I think I twisted it when we went in here..."

Ian stared at her, realizing that he had pulled her into the room with unnecessary force in an effort to save her life. Something close to guilt clenched at his insides and he said, "All right. Here." He walked over and picked her up again. It was more difficult this time, with his injured arm, but he ignored the pain and focused on getting them both out of there alive. Listening hard, he first made sure the hallway was safe, then made his way to the stairs.

It was dark, silent, and rather unsettling. Ian listened for anyone who might be waiting for him, then slowly started his descent. Emily clung to his neck, her face buried in his shoulder again. She had to be terrified, but for some reason she trusted him just enough to save her. _Bad judge of character,_ Ian thought grimly. He was the last person she should have trusted.

All thoughts were suddenly erased from his mind when he approached the corner and someone emerged, his gun pointed at them.

The Russian had him point-blank, but he had aimed the gun first at Emily, and he hesitated. Ian knew if he even raised his gun, both of them would be dead. With Emily's arms wrapped around his neck, almost choking him, he said in Russian, "You don't have to do this."

His tone was placating and even; it was not one he had ever used when speaking to a Russian. The gunman's eyes snapped over to his. "Just you," he grunted. He gestured for him to release Emily.

_So this is how I die. Protecting someone I should have left behind. _Ian paused a moment, then gently removed the girl's arms from his neck. He fully intended to let her go and take the bullet for her. Why the fuck not? It would make up for all the terrible things he had done over the past six years. And he certainly was not afraid of death. With everything that had happened to him, it was a miracle he was not killed years ago.

Just as he was about to set her down, a gunshot rang out. Ian jumped badly, but it was the gunman who had been shot. Emily squeaked in terror and buried her face in his shoulder once more as the Russian collapsed in the hall. Ian looked up to find John lowering his pistol.

"Thanks," Ian said quietly.

John took one look at the girl and Ian knew he had figured out why he wasn't present for the fight. He narrowed his eyes, fixing Ian with an expression he had only seen him give their enemies. "The fight is over," he said coldly. "I'll see you outside."

Then he turned and walked away.

There wasn't anything else to do but follow him. The walk through the building was an unpleasant reminder that he had left the other gunrunners to fend for themselves; there was blood splattered everywhere, and while most of the bodies scattered around were Russians, he could see some of their men as well. He tried not to think too much about it. Ian stumbled out of the base, bleeding, sweating, and panting, with Emily in his arms and clinging to his neck. He crossed the alleyway to the storage, opening the door with some difficulty; his arm was almost numb. Anthony and David were waiting for him inside. Anthony looked frantic, having driven himself half mad with worry. Ian gave him his daughter back as his former friend stared, open-mouthed. "Here," he said uncharitably.

"Ian," Anthony stammered, reaching for him, "how can I thank –"

"_Don't _touch me." He jerked away. _I didn't do it for you. _He needed a cigarette immediately; he was shaking from panic and adrenaline and he had no idea why he had saved Anthony's kid at all. With trembling hands, he fished for his pack of cigarettes and fumbled with the lighter. It took several attempts to light up.

Someone stepped up to him. Ian looked up with a scowl, expecting Anthony, but it was Luke. "Come with me," the gunrunner said in a low, grim voice.

Ian followed him without another word, the cigarette between his teeth. He didn't know what he was expecting, but when Luke brought him to the back room and the gunrunners parted to give him a clear view, James lying grievously wounded certainly was not it. Ian felt strangely numb as he ran his eyes over his injuries, all gunshot wounds; they had tried to stop the bleeding in his chest and shoulder using towels that were now soaked with red, but he had seen enough to know that a person could not lose that much blood and survive.

He felt as though he should say something, but he had no idea where to start. He had been nowhere near them when this shit went down; no, instead Ian had taken his time getting out of the base because he seemed to think that saving Anthony's kid was more important than the person who had saved his life. James looked at him through glassy eyes as his chest rose and fell weakly. "I don't want to know where you were, and why you weren't fighting with us," he said in a hoarse voice. "I don't care. Kill more of these fuckers for me, Ian. We lost our country because of them, we lost friends and family – kill them, God dammit. Kill as many as you..." His words became choked and he coughed blood onto the couch. He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, James," Ian said quietly. He drew back from him, suddenly unable to remain there any longer. James had asked for his help, demanded he defend them when their leader realized he was in trouble, but Ian had chosen to save Anthony's stupid kid instead. A numbness spread through his limbs that had nothing to do with his injury. _Is that any different than what Anthony did to me? _The thought was jarring, and he took a long drag on the cigarette to calm the storms that arose in his mind. His heart pounded in his ears. _Fuck. Fuck. _

_I'm no better than him._

"What the fuck happened?" someone demanded. "How did they find us?"

There was a pause. Ian's heart raced. "I don't know," said John. "It was only a matter of time until they figured out where we were." That was true; the Russians probably wanted to raid the base when they realized how many weapons they could get. Not to mention that the gunrunners had been a thorn in their sides for a long time, almost as long as the war had been going on.

"How did James know they were coming?" another asked, but no one had an answer for him.

Anthony, David, and Emily stood near the doorway, watching the scene with wide eyes. Ian strode up to them, angry with them, with the Russians, but mostly with himself. "All right," he growled to Anthony. "I'll help you."

"What?" Anthony said blankly.

Ian ground his teeth. "I'll help you save Kalel. But I want to be paid, because I seem to be out of a job." He jerked his head as his employer, who was probably already dead. He should have been grieving, felt some sort of remorse, but he just felt deadened.

Anthony blinked at him, then turned to David. The former gamer shrugged, his eyes running worriedly over Ian's injured shoulder. "I have some guns I can give you."

"Good," Ian said. "We'll leave now. Come on." Even though not all of them realized Ian had not been present for the fight, he knew that the other gunrunners were not happy with him, so there really was no reason to stay there any longer. His thoughts were furious and fragmented. _I guess I chose my old life over the new when I decided to save Emily instead of James. _How much did the gunrunners really mean to him then? He shook his head, pissed at himself; he thought one way and acted another, and now he was about to help someone he had sworn to himself he would never associate with again. _Maybe there's more of the old me left than I thought. _

He started toward the door. "Thank you, Ian," said Anthony quietly.

_Don't thank me. You have no idea what this will put me through. _Another reason he had refused to help Anthony, other than the fact he as pissed as hell at him, that his former friend seemed to have forgotten the events of six years ago – Ian knew exactly where Kalel had ended up. The prison where he had spent a good six months had been restored shortly after the gunrunners raided it. He had not gone anywhere near that place since he had been freed, and he was about to willingly walk right into it. _How the fuck am I going to hold myself together for this? _

* * *

><p>AN: Oh dear...

Anthony seriously does need to keep better track of Emily xD haha. I hope this chapter came together all right lol. I hate it when there's a very specific way I've imagined these scenes going, but it just won't work when I finally write it out, so it somehow doesn't end up as dramatic & awesome...oh well, writer problems lol.

Next time: Ian gets them to the prison where Kalel is held. I think it'll be another short one before the main intensity of the rescue begins, but I'm not quite sure; it depends on how long it ends up.

Thanks for reading guys!


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Hey guys! I'm back!

And dammit, another breakup went down. Well, just pretend that Anthony & Kalel are still together anyway, just like I've been doing with Melian xD Don't mind me, just trying to keep my OTPs together somehow.

This chapter was going to be just the drive over to the base, but this story is moving slowly enough, so I decided to combine it into the rescue as well, since some people have been requesting longer chapters anyway. Yay! I hope this is all right.

Enjoy :)

* * *

><p>Despite the chaos of that morning, getting a car and taking off wasn't that much of a hassle. Ian knew that the gunrunners had no idea what to do with him and thus couldn't wait to get him out of there. He couldn't blame them. It had not been his fault James had died, but he hadn't done everything he could to save him, either. Ian was not eager to return to the shitstorm he knew his former coworkers would have waiting for him.<p>

Even though he couldn't return to his room to get whatever he might need for the inevitable violence, Ian still made do using a room in a separate apartment he kept hidden from the other gunrunners. He had stolen it from a Russian whose body was rotting away in an alley somewhere, so he wouldn't miss it. Ian stored anything there he thought the gunrunners wouldn't need – or perhaps miss. They might have been the closest thing he had to friends, but he still stole from them, using the hours they were away doing their own jobs to his advantage. He made the other three wait in the lobby, which gave him time to tend to his injured shoulder, then he took a few guns, ammunition, and certain explosives from the apartment and locked it with the stolen key. After he had what he needed, Ian brought them downstairs to the garage. He owned several stolen cars. Six years of hell couldn't make him lose his love for vehicles, and as much as he would have liked to take the fanciest one he owned, it made more sense to take the inconspicuous Subaru that wouldn't draw any unwanted attention. He drove them all onto the road and they began the trip north.

For the most part, the four of them were silent. Ian was perfectly happy to spend the entire trip without saying a word, but he knew that would be far fetched. He drove through traffic with one hand on the steering wheel and the other held against his forehead, his elbow resting on the door, trying to ignore everything that was wrong with what he was doing. Ian should not have been driving them all to save Kalel. He kept telling himself this was just another job, another mission he would get paid for, and then he could be rid of them once again. He could return to hiding in Anaheim and he would never have to put up with these people another time. But Ian knew that wouldn't be true. He might have written them off, but for some reason the others still cared – he would be hard pressed to get Joshua to leave him alone, or even David, and he guessed that both of them would try to get him and Anthony to reconcile. They would be fighting a losing battle.

Ian cracked a window open and lit a cigarette, ignoring Anthony's disapproving frown in the passenger seat beside him. He stared at the traffic ahead of him, daring him to say anything about his smoking – he did not need much of an excuse to yell at his former best friend. But Anthony surprised him. "Hey, man. I'm sorry about...about your boss. You were close to him, weren't you?"

He took a long drag. Anthony waited for him to respond, staring at him expectantly. Ian saw his gaze flick uncertainly to the rear-view mirror as he shared a glance with David. He felt torn. He couldn't bring himself to thank his friend, even though he appreciated his words. Anthony was right – he had been close to James. James had been the one who had pulled him out of that prison and gave him a new purpose. But agreeing with Anthony would hurt some part of his soul, and he just couldn't make himself do it. "He was just another gunrunner," Ian said with a shrug. "People die a lot in this business. It's not that big a deal."

From the look on Anthony's face, he knew Ian was lying. So he hadn't lost his inexplicable ability to read other people, although it seemed to drift in and out of effectiveness when Anthony wanted something from him. Ian made no effort to be genuine. He was going to help Anthony get Kalel back – it was the best he was going to get. "Whatever," the other man muttered. "You sure you know where we're going?"

_I know exactly where we're going. I spent six fucking months there. _Ian's hand tightened on the steering wheel. He needed the guns, the money, but was it worth the breakdown and mental fuckup he would inevitably go through when he reached the prison? He might lose himself in the most dangerous of circumstances, and Anthony had no idea what this was going to cost him. It was unfair and frustrating and it made Ian hate himself more for agreeing to this, but he had no other jobs going on at the moment. And since he had suddenly found himself estranged from the other gunrunners, he might not have another job for a while.

Ian would just have to hope he could keep himself together long enough to free Kalel.

"Yes," he said shortly.

"How's your shoulder?" David asked from the back.

He had almost forgotten about it. Ian rolled the joint slowly and felt little pain. "Fine," he muttered.

Another long stretch of silence. One would have thought someone who had not seen these people in six years would have had more to say to them, but he did not even want to be there, much less speak to those who had forgotten him. He instead watched the buildings and the traffic and the people around the city, smoking his cigarette without saying a word. As usual, people walked with their heads down; terrified Americans and out-of-place Russians or Arabs, all worried about when the next attack would take place. They drifted in and out of their shopping as though expecting a bomb to strike the market place, although it wasn't exactly an overreaction. He could see people sleeping underneath a bridge as they passed slowly by, still held up by the traffic. Some of them had pipes and bongs and other strange substances scattered around carelessly. These were the people who had completely given up. If it hadn't been for James, Ian might have found himself among them one day.

He eyed their drugs with a curious, slightly longing gaze. He had tried once, not long after he had lost Melanie. The other gunrunners had found him in his room, a needle in his arm and utterly lost, tears streaking his face. The drugs had put him in contact with his emotions on a level he couldn't handle. Ian had never tried drugs again.

His attention was forced suddenly from the group on the side of the street when Anthony sat up straighter in his seat, staring anxiously out the windshield. They had reached another jam, but this time there was what looked like a toll booth slowing down the cars ahead. Russians, armed with unnecessarily huge guns, stopped and talked to every car that passed. Some were asked to peel away from the group, leave their vehicle, and be escorted away.

"This is a checkpoint," Anthony said, his voice tight with worry.

_Well spotted, fuckwit. _"Yep," said Ian.

"We're not Russians. They're stopping Americans, aren't they? What the fuck are we going to do?" Anthony wrung his hands and looked nervously back at his daughter.

Ian listened to him ramble in quiet amusement. "Guess we have a problem," he said, sounding every bit unconcerned.

His friend shot him a furious glance. "Damned straight we have a problem! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have a plan?"

"No," he said absently as he rolled down the window. Their car was the next in line. "I'd suggest not speaking, though."

"Ian – " Anthony hissed, but he was forced into silence as Ian pulled the car up next to the waiting Russians.

A grizzled old soldier stepped up to the car, bending to see through the window and eyeing everyone inside. "Where are you headed?" he asked Ian, in Russian. Anthony was looking carefully away from them, his hands shaking and his posture tense.

Ian lit another cigarette. "Northbound, to trade in some guns," he answered in the same language. He sensed Anthony's start of surprise and ignored it. The soldier was thankfully oblivious.

"And the girl?" The old Russian nodded toward Emily in the back. Ian couldn't see her, but he hoped she was at least trying to act this was normal.

He shrugged. "It was safer to bring her with us, believe it or not. Damned Americans might try to blow the place up while we're gone." It almost wasn't a lie. They had nowhere to leave Emily while they were out rescuing her mother. It simply wasn't worth the effort to drive all the way back to LA just to ask Joshua if he could watch her for the time being, especially when he might have been busy at the hospital. Ian didn't like it, but the girl would have to wait in the car while they infiltrated the prison.

The soldier studied them. He nodded once. "All right. Go ahead, then. Don't start any trouble."

"No worries," Ian said easily, keeping his expression carefully neutral as Anthony seemed to struggle with himself beside him. He gave the soldier a returning nod and pressed lightly on the gas. The car pulled away from the checkpoint, and they were on their way once more.

There was a resounding silence. Ian was trying very hard not to laugh. At last, Anthony said in a low, dangerous tone, "You can speak Russian."

He kept his eyes on the road. "Yeah."

"You didn't tell us that. I was over here freaking out and the whole time you could have just told me that you spoke Russian!"

Ian heard David laugh from the back seat. "He's developed a rather vindictive sense of humor, hasn't he?"

Anthony crossed his arms and fell into silence once more. Ian smirked to himself as he drove. Another victory for him.

No one spoke again until they had left the city proper and Ian turned the car into an empty alleyway. He had seen the prison for a split second before the brick walls hid it from view, and it didn't help his mental state at all. He was the perfect picture of calm indifference on the outside, but his heart was pounding anxiously and he knew the flashbacks would not stay away for long. He was about to willingly walk into the place of his nightmares for somebody he hated. What the fuck was he doing? Why had he taken them all the way there – he had to get out of there. Right now.

_Why _had he done this to himself?

"Where are we?" said David, a slightly tense edge to his voice. Ian could see Emily in the rear view mirror, looking around worriedly, but silent. She had scooted close to David, and he had an arm around her shaking form.

Ian swallowed hard, but his tone was indifferent. "We're here. The prison is just around the corner." He looked over at Anthony. "Go get her."

His former friend stared at him blankly. "Uh, what?"

"Kalel's in the prison around the corner. Did you not fucking hear me? You wanted me to get you here. So go."

Anthony was stunned into silence. Then his brows furrowed together and his voice grew sharp. "What? You said you were going to help me save her!"

"I believe you asked me to get you to where she was being held," Ian said carelessly.

"That is _not _what we agreed, Ian!" snarled Anthony. "You said you would _go into the prison _and help me save her, dammit!"

"Is it? Is that exactly what we agreed?" An infuriating smirk twisted his mouth. Anthony glared at him, trying to speak, but Ian cut across him. "If neither of us can remember exactly what we agreed upon, I think I'm free to change the specifics. And if you really want me to risk my ass for Kalel, I'm going to expect a larger payment."

"You son of a bitch," Anthony snapped.

There was another resonating silence. Ian turned back toward the windshield. He couldn't have cared less that he was being an he could freely admit he couldn't resist an opportunity to piss off Anthony.

He heard David let out an angry, defeated sigh. "We'll get you your guns."

"Good." Ian opened his door. His heart pounded, and in the back of his mind, screams and cruel laughter echoed. He walked out of the car without another word, popping the trunk open and retrieving a briefcase. He hid a pistol in the waistband of his paints. Ian felt as though he was walking toward the guillotine when he moved back to the car. "Wait here."

"You're going alone?" Anthony said loudly. Ian rolled his eyes when his former friend jumped out of the car, slamming the door closed. "You don't need help?"

Ian just looked at him. "I've done many more successful operations alone than with a group. And you've never been part of something like this. You'd get in the way."

"You can't go alone, though," he said, frowning.

_I wish you cared so much six years ago. _Ian just looked at him. He saw a skinny, naïve man who had no idea what he was trying to get himself involved in and had never fired a gun in his life. Ian wouldn't mind if Anthony got himself killed trying to help him, but he didn't want Anthony to get _him _killed with his inexperience. He scowled. "Just stay here and look after Emily and David. You can use one of these, right?" He opened the briefcase and handed him a 9 millimeter.

Anthony hesitated, staring at the pistol as though it might corrupt him.

"If you can't, you've got no business trying to help me. I'll be back soon...probably."

Ian abruptly walked past him. He moved onto the sidewalk, never bothering to check if Anthony was following him. He felt oddly cold, a strange numbness attacking his limbs and heart, and he realized that it was fear. He had not been truly afraid in six years simply because he did not care enough about himself to fear death. Ian had no idea what he was doing, helping someone he hated, especially when it meant returning here. _Does Anthony know what might happen to me if someone here realizes who I am?_

* * *

><p>"You've got guns for us?"<p>

The person who escorted him into the prison was a fidgety young man who kept fumbling with his uniform. He had held a gun to Ian's throat upon his arrival, but at the first Russian word Ian spoke, the man had drawn away with a hasty apology. It wasn't exactly unusual behavior, given where the poor man worked. There was an eerie silence throughout the entrance hallway, but he knew he could hear the echoing screams at any moment.

Outside, the prison had not been a memorable structure. It was a drab one-story building with a short, paved walkway to the entrance. A fence had been constructed around the back, enclosing the laundry and other facilities. Even once he had stepped inside, nothing thus far had set off any of his flashback triggers, as Ian had been shot and unconscious when they dragged him through the front door six years ago. But the prison had a distinctive smell, one of blood, dust, and machinery, and he recognized it as soon as he walked inside. He immediately wished he had a drink. No, he wished he didn't have to be there at all. Ian grit his teeth and followed the man, his hand gripping the handle of the briefcase and his other hand clenched into a fist, as he pretended not to notice the blood on the once white walls, the Russian men who studied him as he walked past, the hall that would probably take him to the cells.

Ian kept his face perfectly impassive. It was what he had been trained to do, and it had saved his life more times than he could count. "That's correct," he said. "I received a tip that guns were wanted here, so I thought this might be the best place to do business."

Thank God his bullshit reflex was still working. The man nodded distractedly. "Yes. We've needed guns. Damned Americans keep stealing from our dead. We also need ammo. You have that, too?"

"Lots," he stated briskly.

"I'll take you to our overseer, then. Come on."

Ian had no idea who their overseer was going to be, but he hoped he would be as easy to fool as this kid was. The young man led him past the holding cells and through a second door at the back. As soon as he opened it, however, a piercing scream met his ears, and Ian very nearly stumbled over his own feet. He prayed the man had not noticed the way his face had drained of color and a thin sheet of cold sweat coated his skin as memories of his own nightmare plagued him. He swallowed several times and tried to think of something that might calm him. The only trouble was, there was not much in his life that brought him some sense of peace besides alcohol and cigarettes, and he was unfortunately limited from both at the moment. Memories of his old life only made him angry, as it seemed that no one from Smosh cared enough about him to try to find him or save his life. And the less he thought about Melanie, the better.

Instead, Ian focused on the idea that Anthony and the others would be gone from his life after this mission, and he could carry on killing Russians and stirring up trouble as much as he liked. With the flashbacks once again delayed, Ian was taken to a back room. A large Russian man could be seen rifling through letters and papers. Ian peered at him through the window in the door. For some reason, the sight of the man had a chill of fear traveling up his spine, but he couldn't say he recognized him.

The young man opened the door. "Sorry to bother you, sir," he said. "This guy says he has guns to trade us."

There was a grunt of acknowledgment as the Russian gestured vaguely for him to enter. The other man left quickly, shutting the door behind him. Ian held out a hand. "Good to meet you. I heard you were in need of something to arm your men."

"That we are," said the overseer, and he shook his hand and raised his eyes to meet Ian's. Ian felt his heart skip several beats as terror pounded into his veins. "Your timing could not be better, actually."

_Oh, God. No. No. _It took herculean effort, but Ian somehow kept his face perfectly neutral as he laid the briefcase on the desk and sat in the opposite chair. Now he understood why the man had scared him so badly; he _had_ seen the overseer before, but he hadn't exactly been in the best state of mind to commit him to memory. The twisted scar mottled across one eye had given him away, and the other was a piercing, cruel silver.

Ian had not seen the overseer since the day before he was rescued from the prison. He had been the one who had dragged him from his cell each day, distributed instructions as to which experiments he wanted conducted, and disappeared as he was left to scream. _How _this guy had survived the gunrunners' attack on the prison was beyond him. What a strange twist of fate that the twenty-six year old he had once tortured to the brink of death was working undercover to try and bring the prison down.

_This is going to make it so much harder to keep myself together. _Ian looked the man straight in the eye. What was he going to do if he recognized him? _He won't. He won't. It's been six years. There's no way he's going to know who I am. _Ian kept telling himself that, over and over, and he forced himself to pay attention when the overseer began speaking.

"Let's have a look." The Russian man flipped the briefcase open and pondered the contents inside. Ian watched him eye the dismantled guns with a greedy, fascinated eye. "What sort of ammo do you carry?"

Ian described the ammunition. Hoped and prayed the man would not look at him too closely. His mind had quickly become a torrent of flashbacks and screams. He remembered the sound of the man's cruel laughter, the way his boots tracked blood into his cell every time he dragged him out...

The overseer might not have recognized him yet, but Ian could place him all too clearly. "I see." The Russian man nodded, scrawling a note on a piece of paper and sweeping it off to the side. "Well, I guess those will have to do. What are your prices? I can offer you rubles or a different assortment of guns. And don't try to scam me, boy – I haven't thrown away the idea of shooting you and taking all of this for myself, even if you are one of us."

"Of course," Ian said coolly. "Rubles are preferred." His voice had wavered dangerously at the last word. The man looked up at him, considering, analyzing, then glanced down at the guns again. "Four hundred for everything you see. One seventy-five for just the ammo. Two twenty-five for just the guns."

It had been a long time since he had attempted to scam someone without any alcohol involved. Ian had no idea if he could pull this off, even without the demons afflicting him. And pretty soon he would have to move this from a normal transaction to actually attempting to rescue Kalel.

Then he heard another scream.

The sound sent another wave of memories attacking his consciousness, sending him back and forth between past and present, showing him splatters of blood and screams of pain. Ian rubbed at his temples, willing himself to stay calm. Stay focused. He could do this, he could keep himself sane just for this job... _What if he recognizes me? What if I end up back in that cell today? God, I can't go through that again. I can't._

"Fine," the overseer said, ignoring the noise. "Wise prices; I'd say you've been in this business for a while if you know not to try and scam one of us. Well done on your part, eh?" And he patted Ian's head like a dog that had done well on command. Ian would have bristled if he weren't so terrified. The overseer frowned. "Are you all right?"

Ian nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course."

But the overseer did not look away. His frown stayed as it was, and that cold gray eye ran over his face, studying him. "You don't look it. Actually, you look familiar," he said. "Have I seen you before?"

Ian's heart began to pound painfully in his chest. He willed himself to look steadily into the Russian man's gaze, but fear had rendered him mute. All he could think about was being dragged out of that office and thrown in a cell. Waiting for the moment they would take him for whatever hellish experiments they had planned. His pulse quickened and he felt a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face.

Someone burst into the office. Ian started badly, but neither the overseer or the newcomer noticed. "Sir – someone just shot at one of our men. We think he's in the prison now."

"God dammit," the overseer muttered. He stood up quickly and glanced down at Ian. "I'm afraid we'll have to finish this transaction later. Stay here if you want to avoid getting shot, gunrunner. I'll be back soon."

"All right," Ian managed to say.

He didn't hear the door slam behind the two men. Ian sank into one of the worst panic attacks he had ever experienced. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if he'd had alcohol to deaden his senses, but he was stuck in the prison from his nightmares, and a long way from his bottle of vodka. The terror overwhelmed him, and the images became so vivid he was convinced he had been captured again...and this time the gunrunners wouldn't be there to save him.

When Ian pulled himself out of the terrified recesses of his mind, his face was streaked with tears. He dried his face with the sleeve, hating himself and what he had been reduced to, and forced himself to stand. His legs shook under his weight. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Anthony and his God damned wife, fuck this job, fuck everything. _

Another scream sounded, but it didn't take him into another attack. Instead, it made him angry. He would never truly be at peace while this place existed. Maybe...maybe he could do something about that. He could erase this place from existence, maybe granting himself some sense of peace. With shaking hands, Ian reached into the briefcase, shuffling past the guns and ammo until he uncovered a hidden compartment at the bottom. He flipped it open. Several bombs lay inside.

It took him thirty seconds to arm one. He hid it within a drawer in the desk; he couldn't hear it ticking unless he listened very carefully. With that taken care of, Ian snapped the briefcase closed, picked it up, and turned toward the door. Took a single, deep breath – he felt the fear bleed away. He still had a job to do. And if he was successful, this place would cease to exist. He had given himself fifteen minutes. It would be plenty of time to find Kalel and get the fuck out of there.

Ian left the room and walked into the hall. He could hear the Russians shouting at each other, issuing orders as they tried to find the gunman. _I never thought I'd ever say this, but thank God for Anthony,_ he thought. His former friend had incredible timing; Ian was pretty sure that if the overseer had even a minute more, he would have been found out, and he probably would have ended up in one of those cells.

He pushed past the panicked Russians. No one made a move to stop him; they were too focused on finding whoever had begun firing upon the prison. They had completely forgotten about him, and it was exactly what Ian had hoped for. The only problem he had now was finding his way to the cell blocks as quickly as he could. He didn't regret placing that bomb, but it had certainly made his job unnecessarily difficult. Blowing up the prison definitely had not been part of the plan. It wouldn't be a lie, however, to admit that this place suddenly eradicated would probably bring him some sense of peace. It might not fix him entirely, but that was another job all in itself.

After a long run down the white brick halls, he found that the prison cells were kept behind a separate cell door. The keys were hidden inside the abandoned security desk. Ian stole the keys and let himself inside. As soon as he crossed that door, a heavy sense of dread nearly overwhelmed him. _This _was the part of the prison he remembered. His pace slowed as he walked past the cells filled with various cruel instruments, none of which he spent too long analyzing; he couldn't risk another flashback, not now. He forced himself to trudge forward. It was quite some time before he came across any prisoners – the 'lab' cells seemed to go on for ages. As he passed through the dark corridors, Ian scanned every prisoner's face, searching for the person he was looking for.

It was sadly easy to tell which prisoners had been there the longest. Some people were pacing, some shouted at him, either cries for help or obscenities; some chatted nervously with their cellmates. But then there were the prisoners who were huddled up in the corner, parts of their clothes soaked with blood. Trembling and shaking and muttering to themselves, their watery eyes never still, their breath hitched and pained. Ian knew exactly what they had been through. It hurt to realize he had once been just as lost.

Ian recognized her at once. She was standing with her head resting on the bars of her cell, and when he stopped at the sight of her, she raised her eyes in confusion. There was a Russian guard standing near, watching him warily as well. Ian stepped up to him. "The overseer requested your presence," he told him in Russian. "We're under attack."  
>The Russian swore and pushed himself away from the wall, hurrying down the corridor.<p>

Kalel frowned at him. She took a step back as he unlocked her cell. "Hurry up," he told her.

The cell door swung open. Kalel hesitated. She didn't look as though anything too cruel had happened to her; her little dress was ripped and blood had mottled near her collarbone, but the eyes she fixed him with were fierce. "Who are you? What's going on?" she demanded.

"Kalel, don't fucking argue with me," Ian snapped. He was a little surprised that personable, friendly Kalel had forgotten the face of her husband's best friend. Although he was well aware he didn't exactly look like the man they remembered.

She stepped hesitantly out of her cell, shooting him a stunned glance. "How do you know my name?" she said. Her fierce tone wavered, and she paused, studying him in the darkness.

Ian slammed the cell door closed. When he made no move to free anyone else, a few of the other prisoners slammed into the bars of their cells, shaking the doors and shouting at him. "Hey, asshole! Us, too!"

"Sorry," he said without looking at them. "I'm not getting paid to rescue you." Ian glanced down at Kalel. "Come on. We're leaving. Now."

But Kalel snatched up the keys he had left in her cell door. "Uh, no. We're not leaving without the rest of these guys. Why do I have more of a right to be saved than them?"

"I already answered that," Ian snapped.

"That's not fair," Kalel said, stepping toward the nearest cell. "I'm saving them."

"_No,_" he snarled, and he seized her arm.

Kalel whirled around and struck him in the face. His head jerked to the side. Ian released her at once. His cheek stung, he was furiously angry, but he had not missed that sharp intake of breath. He raised his eyes to find her frozen, her eyes running over his face. "Oh my God," she said softly. "Ian?"

He scowled down at her. He had no idea how he kept his voice so calm. "We have to leave _now _because there's a bomb planted in the prison that's set to go off in maybe ten minutes."

The shock was quickly replaced with that look of fierce defiance. "Then we'd better work fast, hadn't we?" she snapped, and with that, she turned sharply and began to unlock the other cells.

Ian grit his teeth. _Stupid, self righteous little... _As he stood there seething, the other prisoners began to file out of the cell block. They shot him looks of pure loathing, but Ian was beyond caring; he did not want to be killed by his own bomb. He couldn't leave without her, so he ended up following Kalel from cell to cell as she freed every person inside, but when she happened upon one of the more broken ones, the prisoner shrank away from her and wept. "Leave him," Ian snapped.

Kalel's head whipped around to stare at him. "What? I'm not leaving anyone behind."

"You can't save everybody," he said coldly. "We've wasted enough God damned time. We've got to _go,_ Kalel."

She hesitated. Ian resisted the urge to snatch her arm and drag her out of that cell, but he didn't want to get slapped again, and he had a feeling the stupid woman had gotten the point at last. She stood and pushed past him. Together they made their way out of the cell block.

Her gaze was searching and critical as she analyzed him. "Did Anthony send you?"

"Sort of," said Ian.

"You're supposed to be dead."

"Surprise," he said dryly.

"What happened? How are you –"

"Ask Anthony," he said dismissively, just as they rounded a corner.

A bullet ricocheted off the wall; Ian shoved Kalel behind him, drawing his pistol. It seemed the Russians had figured out that the gunrunner they had let inside the prison wasn't one of them...and even worse, that he was responsible for letting the prisoners free. He grit his teeth. He _knew_ he shouldn't have allowed her to save all those people.

Ian hissed at Kalel to shut up when she began to quietly panic. Someone shouted at him in Russian; he made a split-second decision. They did not have time for this. They were dead anyway if that bomb went off while they were stuck inside the prison. He had nothing to lose anyway, so why wait this one out like a normal fight? Kalel gasped in shock when he broke cover, stepped around the corner, and shot the first person he saw.

It turned out to be the overseer. The man's remaining eye flew open when the bullet tore through his chest. He dropped his pistol at once, staring at Ian with shock and dismay, and he slowly collapsed onto the floor. "You," he choked out. Blood trickled out of his mouth. Ian watched him die. How many times had this man condemned him to hours of experiments and agony? He felt a cold satisfaction as the overseer fell against the security desk, and as the life fled him, Ian saw that flash of recognition in that cruel, silver eye, and he knew the Russian had recognized him at last.

There was a tense pause. "Come on," he snapped at Kalel. She stepped nervously from the safety of the hall. Ian didn't miss the way she flinched at the dead Russian's body and the blood pooling around his head; she was keeping her distance from Ian, very slightly so, as though she had just found another reason not to trust him. He stole the overseer's pistol, stowing it away in his pocket. After all, if he could make a bit more profit off of this damned job, he was going to do it.

He could hear more shouting and chaos in the entrance hallway, and with that, Ian realized there was another problem; the prisoners Kalel had insisted upon releasing had created a blockade when they encountered the Russians trying to track down Anthony. He froze, anger surging in the back of his mind. "Fuck," he breathed, listening to the panic beyond the hallway. There was a mass of bodies pressed up against each other – no way they were getting through that. He shot a glance toward the other door behind the security desk. "Do you still have that key?"

Kalel glanced down at her hand. "Yeah," she said. She held it out to him, uncurling her hand with difficulty. "But...those prisoners...they're not gonna know how to get away from those assholes."

"Tough." Ian took it and unlocked the door behind the desk.

She was silent for a moment. "How do you know this'll lead to an exit?" she asked.

"I just know," he snapped. The door swung open.

Kalel stepped forward, her face was a mask of wonder. "You've been here before," she said slowly.

Ian didn't answer. He didn't even look at her, and that was enough. The door had revealed a short passage with a sharp turn. They ran without looking back; Ian had no idea how much longer they had until the bomb went off. When the armed door came into view, Kalel hesitated, but Ian did not – he shoved it open. The alarm would have his ears ringing for hours. It was a high-pitched keen that would undoubtedly draw the attention of the Russians within; with luck, they would be too busy trying to rally the prisoners to notice.

He had never been so thankful for sunlight in his life. With Kalel trotting behind him, they hurried across the pavement. The door had brought them to an outdoor part of the prison where the inmates could have their laundry washed. It was obvious it hadn't been used since the takeover because the laundry room door was left wide open and all the machines within were long forgotten. Ian looked past the tiny building to the fence behind it. It was low enough to climb, but it was rigged with barbed wire at the top; not necessarily meant to keep prisoners within, because they couldn't get past the cell block door, but to discourage stupid kids from trying to climb over it for some fun.

Kalel hesitated at the sight of the barbed wire; Ian shoved her forward. When they reached the fence, he prepared to give her a boost. "Hurry up," he snapped, bending down and cupping his hands.

Her face was unreadable as she placed her boot into his hands. Gripping the fence for support as he lifted her up, she swung her leg over, carefully avoiding the barbed wire. She was moving too slowly. Ian watched with frustration while she gingerly ambled herself around the painful spikes, wincing whenever her skin came into contact with one of them.

He was not going to wait for her. That bomb was going to go off at any moment. Ian took a running jump at the fence and pulled himself up, linking his fingers painfully between the thin, chain-link wires; just as Kalel dropped down on the other side. She took a step back and watched him, her gaze flicking between him and the building behind them. He swung his right leg over the barbed wire, but did not get a chance to drop down.

There was a monstrous, resonating _boom. _All at once, the prison lit up with smoke and flames, shooting into the sky and sending debris flying. The shockwave hit him in the back. Ian had nothing with which to break his fall; he landed roughly on the pavement below. His side hit first; Ian felt the heel of his right hand scrape against the sidewalk. Pain exploded in his shoulder. Kalel was at his side as he swore and tried to collect himself.

"Are you all right?" she stammered. Her hands were shaking badly, trying to help him to his feet.

Ian grit his teeth. "Yes," he snapped. He had landed on the fucking shoulder where that shot had nicked him earlier that day. _Fuck. I bet the bleeding started again. _Sure enough, red had soaked his upper arm. He turned away from her before she noticed. Ian spared a glance at the prison and found it a smoldering mess of ruins. He hoped very few of the Russians within had escaped the blast.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. He wondered if she had ever been that close to an explosion like that. "Those prisoners – do you think they –"

"_Kalel!_"

The woman at his side let out a shriek of joy at the sight of her husband emerging from the path of the main entrance, splitting away from a few of the prisoners who had somehow made it out. Ian wished he could be anywhere else as they embraced tightly, quite forgetting he was standing there and the explosion that had taken place behind them, as though there was no one else in the world but those two. He said distastefully, "I see you made it out."

Anthony broke away from Kalel and shot him a glance. There was suspicion on his face. "Yeah. Just before that bomb went off, I see."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. The place needed to be taken out, in any case."

"Wait," Kalel said sharply, "you set that bomb when you _knew _Anthony was still inside the prison?"

Ian fixed her with a level gaze. "Oh, yeah. Guess I did. And I guess he got lucky."

Kalel had begun to swell with rage, but Ian was already walking back to the car, leaving them with no choice but to follow him.

The second reunion was just as sickeningly joyful. Emily burst out of the car and cried, "Mom!" as Kalel let out a choked sob and held her daughter. David was watching Ian. Ian moved past the scene, reaching for the driver's side door of the Subaru.

"Your arm's bleeding," David told him.

Ian paused, his eyes flicking over to him. "Yeah," he muttered. He looked at Anthony and Kalel as they approached the car. "You two might want to stay hidden for a little while until all of this dies down. They probably won't be looking for you, but you never know. Since that's the case, I'd recommend _you_ bring me my reward," he continued, nodding toward David. "I can give you my apartment number. Come by with the guns whenever, I don't fucking care..."

He ducked into the car without another word. This time, David rode in the passenger's side. Anthony, Kalel, and Emily walked silently around to the back, sliding wordlessly into their seats.

It wasn't until they had returned to the road that someone spoke. "Can someone explain to me what the _hell _is going on?" Kalel snapped at last. She pointed at Ian. "What is he doing here? How is he still alive? When did you find him? And why is he such an asshole now?"

David barked out a laugh. Ian saw Anthony pat his wife soothingly in the rear view mirror. "We'll explain it when we get home."

_Home. _Ian had no idea where that was for him anymore. He felt worn and drained as the last of the adrenaline faded away. He had somehow managed to destroy one of the worst sources of his nightmares that day, but he didn't feel any less angry. Ian hoped there were a few bottles of vodka hidden away in his second apartment, because he sure as hell needed them tonight.

* * *

><p>AN: I don't know why, but Ian & Kalel interacting is always really funny to me. Originally, she wasn't going to hit him, but then the idea stuck in my mind & I just couldn't get rid of it xD Poor Ian.

I've had the next chapter done for quite a while now :D To try & speed this fic up, I'll post it in a couple days. Yay! It's a short one though, and shows what happens when David brings the guns to Ian. Oh dear.

Thanks for reading guys! I hope this chapter was worth the wait.


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